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The  Collected  Poems  of 
James  Elroy  Flecker 


The   Collected  Poems  of 

James  Elroy  Flecker 


Edited,  with  an  Introduction, 
by  J.  C.  Squire 


New   York 

Doubleday,  Page   &*  Co. 
1916 


PRINTED  IN  ENGLAND 


The  frontispiece  to  this  volume  is  from  a 

photograph  of  the  Author  taken 

at  Beyrout  in  191 2 


Contents 


Introduction,  ix 
Editorial  Note,  xxxi 

JUVENILIA 

Four  Translations  and  Adaptations  from  Catullus,  3 

Sirmio,  8 

Lucretia,  9 

Song  in  the  Night,  14 

Glion — Noon,  15 

Glion — Evening,  16 

Last  Love,  17 

Fragments  of  an  Ode  to  Shelley,  18 

LATER  POEMS 

A  New  Year's  Carol,  27 

From  Grenoble,  29 

Narcissus,  30 

Inscription  for  Arthur  Rackham's  "  Rip  Van  Winkle," 

32 
Envoy,  33 
Riouperoux,  34 
Mignon,  35 

Tenebris  Interlucentem,  36 
The  First  Sonnet  of  Bathrolaire,  37 


The  Second  Sonnet  of  Bathrolaire,  38 

The  Ballad  of  Hampstead  Heath,  39 

Litany  to  Satan,  42 

The  Translator  and  the  Children,  45 

Destroyer  of  Ships,  Men,  Cities,  46 

Oxford  Canal,  48 

Hialmar  Speaks  to  the  Raven,  50 

The  Ballad  of  the  Student  in  the  South,  52 

The  Queen's  Song,  54 

On  Turner's  Polyphemus,  56 

The  Bridge  of  Fire,  57 

We  That  Were  Friends,  62 

My  Friend,  63 

Ideal,  65 

Mary  Magdalen,  67 

I  Rose  from  Dreamless  Hours,  69 

Prayer,  70 

The  Piper,  71 

The  Masque  of  the  Magi,  72 

To  a  Poet  a  Thousand  Years  Hence,  75 

Heliodora,  yy 

Love,  the  Baby,  78 

Ballad  of  the  Londoner,  79 

Resurrection,  80 

Dulce  Lumen,  Triste  Numen,  Suave  Lumen  Luminum, 

81 
Joseph  and  Mary,  83 
The  Lover  of  Jalalu'ddin,  87 
Donde  Estan  ?   88 
The  Town  without  a  Market,  91 
A  Western  Voyage,  94 
Invitation,  96 
War  Song  of  the  Saracens,  98 


VI 


The  Ballad  of  Camden  Town,  ioo 

Gravis  Dulcis  Immutabilis,  102 

Fountains,  103 

Dirge,  104 

The  Parrot,  106 

Lord  Arnaldos,  108 

A  Miracle  of  Bethlehem,  no 

Felo-de-se,  119 

The  Welsh  Sea,  121 

In  Memoriam,  122 

Opportunity,  123 

No  Coward's  Song,  125 

Pillage,  126 

The  Ballad  of  Zacho,  128 

Pavlovna  in  London,  130 

The  Sentimentalist,  133 

Don  Juan  in  Hell,  135 

The  Ballad  of  Iskander,  137 

The  Golden  Journey  to  Samarkand,  144 

Gates  of  Damascus,  151 

Yasmin,  158 

Saadabad,  160 

The  Hammam  Name,  163 

In  Phaeacia,  166 

Epithalamion,  168 

Hyali,  170 

Santorin,  173 

A  Ship,  an  Isle,  a  Sickle  Moon,  175 

Oak  and  Olive,  176 

Brumana,  179 

Areiya,  182 

Bryan  of  Brittany,  183 

Don  Juan  Declaims,  189 


The  Painter's  Mistress,  192 

In  Hospital,  194 

Taoping,  196 

Virgil's  iEneid  :  Book  VI,  198 

The  Dying  Patriot,  210 

A  Sacred  Dialogue,  212 

The  Old  Ships,  216 

The  Blue  Noon,  218 

A  Fragment,  219 

Narcissus,  221 

Stillness,  223 

The  Pensive  Prisoner,  224 

Hexameters,  225 

Philomel,  226 

From  Jean  Moreas'  "  Stances,"  228 

The  Princess,  229 

Pannyra  of  the  Golden  Heel,  231 

The  Gate  of  the  Armies,  232 

November  Eves,  233 

God  Save  the  King,  234 

The  Burial  in  England,  236 

The  True  Paradise,  240 

Ode  to  the  Glory  of  Greece,  242 

The  Old  Warship  Ablaze,  247 


via 


Introduction 


James  Elroy  Flecker  was  born  in  London  (Lewisham) 
on  November  5,  1884.  He  was  the  eldest  of  the  four 
children  of  the  Rev.  W.  H.  Flecker,  D.D.,  now  Head 
Master  of  Dean  Close  School,  Cheltenham.  After  some 
years  at  his  father's  school  he  went  in  1901  to  Uppingham, 
proceeding  to  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  in  1902.  He  stayed 
at  Oxford  until  1907  and  then  came  to  London,  teaching 
for  a  short  time  in  Mr.  Simmons'  school  at  Hampstead. 
In  1908  he  decided  to  enter  the  Consular  Service,  and 
went  up  to  Cambridge  (Caius  College)  for  the  tuition  in 
Oriental  languages  available  there.  He  was  sent  to 
Constantinople  in  June  1910,  was  first  taken  ill  there  in 
August,  and  in  September  returned  to  England  and  went 
to  a  sanatorium  in  the  Cotswolds.  He  returned  to  his 
post,  apparently  in  perfect  health,  in  March  191 1;  was 
transferred  to  Smyrna  in  April ;  and  in  May  went  on  leave 
to  Athens,  where  he  married  Miss  Helle  Skiadaressi,  a 
Greek  lady  whom  he  had  met  in  the  preceding  year.  He 
spent  three  months'  holiday  in  Corfu,  and  was  sent  to 
Beyrout,  Syria,  in  September  191 1.  In  December  1912 
he  took  a  month's  leave  in  England  and  Paris,  returning 
to  Beyrout  in  January  191 3.  In  March  he  again  fell 
ill,  and  after  a  few  weeks  on  the  Lebanon  (Brumana)  he 


IX 


went  to  Switzerland,  where,  acting  on  his  doctors'  advice, 
he  remained  for  the  last  eighteen  months  of  his  life.  He 
stayed  successively  at  Leysin,  Montreux,  Montana,  Locarno, 
and  (May  1914)  Davos,  where  on  January  3,  191 5,  he  died. 
He  is  buried  in  Cheltenham  at  the  foot  of  the  Cotswold 
Hills. 

His  published  books  include : 

Verse  :  "  The  Bridge  of  Fire  "  (Elkin  Matthews,  1907), 
"Forty-two  Poems"  (Dent,  191 1),  "The  Golden  Journey 
to  Samarkand"  (Goschen,  1913,  now  published  by  Martin 
Seeker),  and  "  The  Old  Ships  "  (Poetry  Bookshop,  1915). 

Prose :  "  The  Last  Generation  (New  Age  Press,  1908), 
"The  Grecians"  (Dent,  1910),  "The  Scholar's  Italian 
Grammar  "  (D.  Nutt,  191 1),  and  "  The  King  of  Alsander  " 
(Goschen,  1914,  now  published  by  Allen  and  Unwin). 
He  left  also  two  unpublished  dramas,  "  Hassan "  and 
"  Don  Juan,"  and  a  number  of  published  and  unpublished 
short  stories,  articles,  and  poems.  Of  the  last  all  the 
most  important  will  be  found  in  the  present  volume. 

II 

That  is  the  bare  outline  of  Flecker's  life  and  work. 
The  present  Introduction  does  not  pretend  to  supply  a 
"  personal  memoir,"  for  which  materials  have  not  been 
collected ;  and  the  work  of  estimating  Flecker's  art  and 
"  placing  "  him  in  relation  to  his  contemporaries  may  be 
left  to  others.  But  one  may  usefully  give  a  few  more 
biographical  details  and  a  short  analysis  of  the  poet's 
artistic  attitude  and  methods  of  work. 


In  person  Flecker  was  tall,  with  blue  eyes,  black,  straight 
hair,  and  dark  complexion.  There  was  a  tinge  of  the 
East  in  his  appearance,  and  his  habitual  expression  was 
a  curious  blend  of  the  sardonic  and  the  gentle.  Until 
illness  incapacitated  him  he  was  physically  quite  active, 
but  his  principal  amusement  was  conversation,  of  which 
he  never  tired.  He  felt  acutely  the  loss  of  good  talk  during 
his  years  abroad,  in  Syria  especially.  He  was  sociable, 
and  enjoyed  meeting  and  talking  with  crowds  of  people ; 
but  he  had  few  intimate  friends  at  Oxford,  and,  after  he 
left  England,  little  opportunity  of  making  any.  One  of 
the  few,  Mr.  Frank  Savery,  now  of  the  British  Legation, 
Berne,  sends  the  following  notes  : 

"  My  acquaintance  with  him  began  in  January  1901,  when 
he  was  a  lanky,  precocious  boy  of  sixteen,  and  lasted, 
with  long  interruptions,  until  his  death.  His  fate  took 
him  to  the  Near  East,  mine  took  me  to  Germany :  for 
this  reason  we  never  met  from  1908  to  1914,  though  we 
never  ceased  to  correspond.  Largely  because  our  inter- 
course was  thus  broken,  I  believe  that  I  am  better  able 
to  appreciate  the  changes  which  his  character  underwent 
in  the  latter  years  of  his  life  than  those  who  never  lost 
sight  of  him  for  more  than  a  few  months  at  a  time. 

"  It  was  at  Oxford  that  I  first  came  to  know  him  inti- 
mately. He  was  extraordinarily  undeveloped,  even  for 
an  English  Public  School  boy,  when  he  first  went  up  in 
1902.  He  already  wrote  verses — with  an  appalling  facility 
that  for  several  years  made  me  doubt  his  talent.  He 
imitated  with  enthusiasm  and  without  discrimination,  and, 
the  taste  in  those  long-gone  days  being  for  Oscar  Wilde's 
early  verse  and  Swinburne's  complacent  swing,  he  turned 


XI 


out  a  good  deal  of  decadent  stuff,  that  was,  I  am  convinced, 
not  much  better  than  the  rubbish  written  by  the  rest 
of  his  generation  at  Oxford.  What  interested  me  in 
Flecker  in  those  days  was  the  strange  contrast  between  the 
man — or  rather  the  boy — and  his  work.  Cultured  Oxford 
in  general,  I  should  add,  was  not  very  productive  at  that 
time :  a  sonnet  a  month  was  about  the  maximum  output 
of  the  lights  of  Balliol.  The  general  style  of  literature  in 
favour  at  the  time  did  not  lend  itself  to  a  generous  out- 
pouring. Hence  there  was  a  certain  piquancy  in  the 
exuberant  flow  of  passionate  verse  which  issued  from 
Flecker's  ever-ready  pen  in  spite  of  his  entire  innocence 
of  any  experience  whatever. 

"  Furthermore,  he  was  a  wit — a  great  wit,  I  used  to  think, 
but  no  humorist — and,  like  most  wits,  he  was  combative. 
He  talked  best  when  some  one  baited  him.  At  last  it  got 
to  be  quite  the  fashion  in  Oxford  to  ask  Flecker  to  luncheon- 
and  dinner-parties — simply  in  order  to  talk.  The  sport 
he  afforded  was  usually  excellent.  .  .  .  Looking  back  on 
it  now,  I  believe  I  was  right  in  thinking  that  in  those  days 
he  had  no  humour  (there  is  very  little  humour  in  Oxford)  ; 
nor  am  I  so  entirely  sure  that  his  wit  was  bad.  I  had,  at 
any  rate,  a  growing  feeling  that,  in  spite  of  his  immaturity 
and  occasional  bad  taste,  he  was  the  most  important  of 
any  of  us  :  his  immense  productiveness  was,  I  vaguely  but 
rightly  felt,  better  and  more  valuable  than  our  finicky  and 
sterile  good  taste. 

"  By  1906  he  had  developed  greatly — largely  thanks  to 
the  companionship  of  an  Oxford  friend  whom,  in  spite 
of  long  absence  and  occasional  estrangements,  he  loved 
deeply  till  the  end  of  his  life.  Even  his  decadent  poems 
had  improved :  poor  as  are  most  of  the  poems  in  '  The 
Bridge  of  Fire,'  they  are  almost   all   above   the   level  of 


xu 


Oxford  poetry,  and  there  are  occasional  verses  which 
forecast  some  of  his  mature  work.  Thus  I  still  think  that 
the  title-poem  itself  is  a  rather  remarkable  achievement 
for  a  young  man  and  not  without  a  certain  largeness  of 
vision.  The  mention  of  this  poem  reminds  me  of  an 
episode  which  well  illustrates  the  light-heartedness  which 
at  that  time  distinguished  the  self-styled  '  lean  and  swarthy 
poet  of  despair.'  I  was  sitting  with  him  and  another 
friend  in  his  rooms  one  day — early  in  1906,  I  think — when 
he  announced  that  he  was  going  to  publish  a  volume  of 
poems.  '  What  shall  I  call  it  ? '  he  asked.  We  had 
made  many  suggestions,  mostly  pointless,  and  almost  all, 
I  have  no  doubt,  indecent,  when  Flecker  suddenly 
exclaimed  :  <  I'll  call  it  "  The  Bridge  of  Fire,"  and  I'll 
write  a  poem  with  that  name  and  put  it  in  the  middle 
of  the  book  instead  of  the  beginning.  That'll  be  original 
and  symbolic  too.'  We  then  debated  the  not  unimportant 
question  of  what  '  The  Bridge  of  Fire '  would  be  about. 
At  midnight  we  parted,  the  question  still  unsettled. 
Flecker,  however,  remarked  cheerfully  that  it  did  not 
much  matter — it  was  a  jolly  good  title  and  he'd  easily  be 
able  to  think  of  a  poem  to  suit  it. 

"  Flecker  always  cherished  a  great  love  for  Oxford  :  he 
had  loved  it  as  an  undergraduate,  and  afterwards  not 
even  the  magic  of  the  Greek  seas,  deeply  as  he  felt  it, 
ever  made  him  forget  his  first  university  town.  But  on 
the  whole  I  think  that  Cambridge,  where  he  went  to  study 
Oriental  languages  in  preparation  for  his  consular  career, 
did  more  for  him.  I  only  visited  him  once  there — in 
November  1908,  I  think — but  I  had  the  distinct  impression 
that  he  was  more  independent  than  he  had  been  at  Oxford. 
He  was  writing  the  first  long  version — that  is  to  say,  the 
third   actual    draft — of    the   '  King   of  Alsander.'      Inci- 


xm 


dentally  he  had  spoilt  the  tale,  for  the  time  being,  by  intro- 
ducing a  preposterous  sentimental  conclusion,  a  departure 
to  unknown  lands,  if  I  remember  rightly,  with  the  peasant- 
maid,  who  had  not  yet  been  deposed,  as  she  was  later  on, 
from  her  original  position  of  heroine. 

"And  now  follow  the  years  in  which  my  knowledge  of 
Flecker  is  drawn  only  from  a  desultory  correspondence. 
I  should  like  to  quote  from  some  of  the  letters  he  wrote 
me,  but,  alas,  they  are  in  Munich  with  all  my  books  and 
papers.  He  wrote  to  me  at  length  whenever  he  had  a  big 
literary  work  on  hand ;  otherwise  an  occasional  post  card 
sufficed,  for  he  was  a  man  who  never  put  either  news  or 
gossip  into  his  letters.  I  knew  of  his  marriage ;  I  knew 
that  his  literary  judgment,  as  expressed  in  his  letters  and 
exemplified  in  his  writings,  had  improved  suddenly  and 
phenomenally.     That  was  all. 

"At  last  his  health  finally  collapsed  and  he  came  to 
Switzerland.  It  was  at  Locarno,  in  May  1914,  that  I  saw 
him  again.  He  was  very  ill,  coughed  continually,  and 
did  not,  I  think,  ever  go  out  during  the  whole  fortnight 
I  spent  with  him.  He  had  matured  even  more  than  I 
had  expected.  .  .  . 

"  He  was  very  cheerful  that  spring  at  Locarno — cheerful, 
not  extravagantly  optimistic,  as  is  the  way  of  consump- 
tives. I  think  he  hardly  ever  mentioned  his  illness  to  me, 
and  there  was  certainly  at  that  time  nothing  querulous 
about  him.  His  judgment  was  very  sound,  not  only  on 
books  but  also  on  men.  He  confessed  that  he  had  not 
greatly  liked  the  East — always  excepting,  of  course,  Greece 
— and  that  his  intercourse  with  Mohammedans  had  led 
him  to  find  more  good  in  Christianity  than  he  had  previously 
suspected.  I  gathered  that  he  had  liked  his  work  as 
Consul,  and  he  once  said  to  me  that  he  was  very  proud 


xiv 


of  having  been  a  good  businesslike  official,  thereby  dis- 
posing, in  his  case  at  any  rate,  the  time-honoured  concep- 
tion of  the  poet  as  an  unpractical  dreamer.  He  was 
certainly  no  mere  dreamer  at  any  period  of  his  life ;  he 
appreciated  beauty  with  extraordinary  keenness,  but,  like 
a  true  poet,  he  was  never  contented  with  mere  apprecia- 
tion. He  was  determined  to  make  his  vision  as  clear  to 
others  as  it  was  to  himself. 

"  I  saw  Flecker  once  more,  in  December  1914.  He  was 
already  visibly  dying,  and  at  times  growing  weakness 
numbed  his  faculties.  But  he  was  determined  to  do  two 
things — to  complete  his  poem,  '  The  Burial  in  England,' 
and  to  put  his  business  affairs  into  the  hands  of  a  com- 
petent literary  agent.  The  letters  and  memoranda  on 
the  latter  subject  which  he  dictated  to  me  were  admirably 
lucid,  and  I  remember  that,  when  I  came  to  read  them 
through  afterwards,  I  found  there  was  hardly  a  word 
which  needed  changing. 

"One  evening  he  went  through  the  'Burial'  line  byline 
with  Mrs.  Flecker  and  myself.  He  had  always  relied 
greatly  on  his  wife's  taste,  and  I  may  state  with  absolute 
certainty  that  the  only  two  persons  who  ever  really  influenced 
him  in  literary  matters  were  the  Oxford  friend  I  have  already 
mentioned  and  the  lady  whose  devotion  prolonged  his 
life,  and  whose  acute  feeling  for  literature  helped  to  a 
great  extent  to  confirm  him  in  his  lofty  ideals  of  artistic 
perfection. 

"Although  he  never  really  finished  the  longer  version 
of  the  '  Burial '  which  he  had  projected,  the  alterations 
and  additions  he  made  that  evening — '  Toledo-wrought 
neither  to  break  nor  bend '  was  one  of  the  latter — were 
in  the  main  improvements  and  in  no  way  suggested  that 
his  end  was  so  near.    To  me,  of  course,  that  poem  must 


xv 


always  remain  intolerably  sad,  but,  as  I  re-read  it  the 
other  day,  I  asked  myself  whether  the  casual  reader  would 
feel  any  trace  of  the  '  mattrass  grave '  on  which  it  was 
written.  Candidly  I  do  not  think  that  even  the  sharpest 
of  critics  would  have  known,  if  he  had  not  been  told, 
that  half  the  lines  were  written  within  a  month  of  the 
author's  death." 

His  letters,  as  is  remarked  above,  were  generally  business- 
like and  blunt.  I  have  found  a  few  to  myself :  they  are 
almost  all  about  his  work,  with  here  and  there  a  short, 
exclamatory  eulogy  of  some  other  writer.  He  observes,  in 
December  191 3,  that  a  journal  which  had  often  published 
him  had  given  "  The  Golden  Journey "  "  an  insolent 
ten-line  review  with  a  batch  of  nincompoops " ;  then 
alternately  he  is  better  and  writing  copiously,  or  very 
ill  and  not  capable  of  a  word.  In  one  letter  he  talks  of 
writing  on  Balkan  Politics  and  Italy  in  Albania ;  in  another 
of  translating  some  war-poetry  of  Paul  Deroulede's. 
Another  time  he  is  even  thinking  of  "  having  a  bang  at 
the  Cambridge  Local  Examination  .  .  .  with  a  whack  in 
it  at  B.  Shaw."  Then  in  November  1914  he  says  :  "  I 
have  exhausted  myself  writing  heroic  great  war-poems." 
He  might  comprehensibly  have  been  in  low  spirits,  dying 
there  in  a  dismal  and  deserted  "  health  resort "  among 
the  Swiss  mountains,  with  a  continent  of  war-zones  cutting 
him  off  from  all  chance  of  seeing  friends.  But  he  always 
wrote  cheerfully,  even  when  desperately  ill.  The  French 
recovery  filled  him  with  enthusiasm ;  he  watched  the 
Near  Eastern  tangle  with  the  peculiar  interest  of  one  who 
knew  the  peoples  involved ;    and    in    one    delicate    and 


xvi 


capricious  piece  of  prose,  published  in  a  weekly  in  October, 
he  recalled  his  own  experiences  of  warfare.  He  had  had 
glimpses  of  the  Turco-Italian  War :  Italian  shells  over 
Beyrout  ("  Unforgettable  the  thunder  of  the  guns  shaking 
the  golden  blue  of  sky  and  sea  while  not  a  breath  stirred 
the  palm-trees,  not  a  cloud  moved  on  the  swanlike  snows 
of  Lebanon  ")  and  a  "  scrap  "  with  the  Druses,  and  the 
smoke  and  distant  rumble  of  the  battle  of  Lemnos,  "  the 
one  effort  of  the  Turks  to  secure  the  mastery  of  the  iEgean." 
These  were  his  exciting  memories  : 

"  To  think  that  it  was  with  cheerful  anecdotes  like  these 
that  I  had  hoped,  a  white-haired  elder,  to  impress  my 
grandchildren  !  Now  there's  not  a  peasant  from  Picardy 
to  Tobolsk  but  will  cap  me  with  tales  of  real  and  frightful 
tragedy.  What  a  race  of  deep-eyed  and  thoughtful  men 
we  shall  have  in  Europe — now  that  all  those  millions  have 
been  baptized  in  fire !  " 

Then  in  the  first  week  of  January  191 5  he  died.  I  cannot 
help  remembering  that  I  first  heard  the  news  over  the 
telephone,  and  that  the  voice  which  spoke  was  Rupert 
Brooke's. 

Ill 

Flecker  began  writing  verse  early,  and  one  of  his  existing 
notebooks  contains  a  number  of  poems  written  whilst  he 
was  at  Uppingham.  The  original  poems  composed,  at 
school  and  at  Oxford,  up  to  the  age  of  twenty  are  not  very 
remarkable.  There  is  nothing  unusual  in  some  unpublished 
lines  written  on  the  school  chapel  bell  at  the  end  of  his 


xvn 


last  term,  and  little  in  "  Danae's  Cradle-Song  for  Perseus  " 
(1902).     A  typical  couplet  is 

Waste  of  the  waves  !     0  for  dawn !     For  a  long 

low  level  of  shore ! 
Better  be  shattered  and  slain  on  the  reef  than 

drift  evermore. 

Both  rhythm  and  language  are  Tennysonian,  and  the  allite- 
rative Tennysonianism  at  the  end  of  the  first  line  is  repeated 
in  a  "  Song  "  of  1904  beginning  : 

Long  low  levels  of  land 

And  sighing  surges  of  sea, 
Mountain  and  moor  and  strand 

Part  my  beloved  from  me. 

A  "  Dream-Song  "  of  1904  is  equally  conventional,  though 
in  the  lines 

Launch  the  galley,  sailors  bold, 
Prowed  with  silver,  sharp  and  cold, 
Winged  with  silk  and  oared  with  gold, 

may  be  seen  the  first  ineffective  attempt  to  capture  an 
image  that  in  various  forms  haunted  Flecker  to  the  end 
of  his  life.  But  the  most  numerous  and,  on  the  whole, 
the  best  of  his  early  poems  are  translations.  And  this  is 
perhaps  significant,  as  indicating  that  he  began  by  being 
more  interested  in  his  art  than  in  himself.  Translating, 
there  was  a  clearly  defined  problem  to  be  attacked ;  diffi- 
culties of  expression  could  not  be  evaded  by  changing  the 
thing  to  be  expressed ;  and  there  was  no  scope  for  fluent 
reminiscence  or  a  docile  pursuit  at  the  heels  of  the  rhyme. 


xviu 


In  1900-1,  cet.  16-17,  he  was  translating  Catullus  and  the 
"  Pervigilium  Veneris,"  and  amongst  the  poets  he  attacked 
in  the  next  few  years  were  Propertius,  Muretus,  Heine, 
Bierbaum,  of  whose  lyrics  he  translated  several,  one  of 
which  is  given  in  this  volume.  This  habit  of  translation, 
so  excellent  as  a  discipline,  he  always  continued,  amongst 
the  poets  from  whom  he  made  versions  being  Meleager, 
Goethe,  Leconte  de  Lisle,  Baudelaire,  H.  de  Regnier, 
Samain,  Jean  Moreas,  and  Paul  Fort.  In  the  last  year 
or  two  his  translations  were  mostly  made  from  the  French 
Parnassians.  What  drew  him  to  them  was  his  feeling  of 
especial  kinship  with  them  and  his  belief  that  they  might 
be  a  healthy  influence  on  English  verse. 

He  explained  his  position  in  the  preface  to  "  The  Golden 
Journey  to  Samarkand."  The  theory  of  the  Parnassians 
had  for  him,  he  said,  "  a  unique  attraction."  "  A  careful 
study  of  this  theory,  however  old-fashioned  it  may  by 
now  have  become  in  France,  would,  I  am  convinced,  benefit 
English  critics  and  poets,  for  both  our  poetic  criticism 
and  our  poetry  are  in  chaos."  Good  poetry  had  been 
written  on  other  theories  and  on  no  theories  at  all,  and 
"  no  worthless  writer  will  be  redeemed  by  the  excellence 
of  the  poetic  theory  he  may  chance  to  hold."  But  "  that 
a  sound  theory  can  produce  sound  practice  and  exercise 
a  beneficent  effect  on  writers  of  genius "  had  been 
repeatedly  proved  in  the  history  of  the  Parnasse. 

"  The  Parnassian  School  [he  continued]  was  a  classical 
reaction  against  the  perfervid  sentimentality  and  extrava- 
gance of  some  French  Romantics.  The  Romantics  in 
France,  as  in  England,  had  done  their  powerful  work  and 


xix 


infinitely  widened  the  scope  and  enriched  the  language 
of  poetry.  It  remained  for  the  Parnassians  to  raise  the 
technique  of  their  art  to  a  height  which  should  enable 
them  to  express  the  subtlest  ideas  in  powerful  and  simple 
verse.  But  the  real  meaning  of  the  term  Parnassian  may 
be  best  understood  from  considering  what  is  definitely  not 
Parnassian.  To  be  didactic  like  Wordsworth,  to  write 
dull  poems  of  unwieldy  length,  to  bury  like  Tennyson  or 
Browning  poetry  of  exquisite  beauty  in  monstrous  realms 
of  vulgar,  feeble,  or  obscure  versifying,  to  overlay  fine  work 
with  gross  and  irrelevant  egoism  like  Victor  Hugo,  would 
be  abhorrent,  and  rightly  so,  to  members  of  this  school. 
On  the  other  hand,  the  finest  work  of  many  great  English 
poets,  especially  Milton,  Keats,  Matthew  Arnold,  and 
Tennyson,  is  written  in  the  same  tradition  as  the  work  of 
the  great  French  school :  and  one  can  but  wish  that  the 
two  latter  poets  had  had  something  of  a  definite  theory 
to  guide  them  in  self-criticism.  Tennyson  would  never 
have  published  '  Locksley  Hall '  and  Arnold  might  have 
refrained  from  spoiling  his  finest  sonnets  by  astonishing 
cacophonies." 

There  were,  he  naturally  admitted,  "  many  splendid 
forms  of  passionate  or  individual  poetry "  which  were 
not  Parnassian,  such  as  the  work  of  Villon,  Browning, 
Shelley,  Rossetti,  and  Verlaine,  "  too  emotional,  individual, 
or  eccentric  "  to  have  Parnassian  affinities  : 

"  The  French  Parnassian  has  a  tendency  to  use  traditional 
forms  and  even  to  employ  classical  subjects.  His  desire 
in  writing  poetry  is  to  create  beauty :  his  inclination  is 
toward  a  beauty  somewhat  statuesque.  He  is  apt  to  be 
dramatic  and  objective  rather  than  intimate.    The  enemies 


xx 


of  the  Parnassians  have  accused  them  of  cultivating  unemo- 
tional frigidity  and  upholding  an  austere  view  of  perfection. 
The  unanswerable  answers  to  all  criticism  are  the  works  of 
Heredia,  Leconte  de  Lisle,  Samain,  Henri  de  Regnier,  and 
Jean  Moreas.  Compare  the  early  works  of  the  latter  poet, 
written  under  the  influence  of  the  Symbolists,  with  his 
'  Stances '  if  you  would  see  what  excellence  of  theory  can 
do  when  it  has  genius  to  work  on.  Read  the  works  of 
Heredia,  if  you  would  understand  how  conscious  and 
perfect  artistry,  far  from  stifling  inspiration,  fashions  it 
into  shapes  of  unimaginable  beauty.  ...  At  the  present 
moment  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  English  poetry  stands 
in  need  of  some  such  saving  doctrine  to  redeem  it  from  the 
formlessness  and  the  didactic  tendencies  which  are  now  in 
fashion.  As  for  English  criticism,  can  it  not  learn  from 
the  Parnassian,  or  any  tolerable  theory  of  poetic  art,  to 
examine  the  beauty  and  not  the  '  message '  of  poetry." 

"  It  is  not  [he  said]  the  poet's  business  to  save  man's 
soul  but  to  make  it  worth  saving.  .  .  .  However,  few  poets 
have  written  with  a  clear  theory  of  art  for  art's  sake,  it 
is  by  that  theory  alone  that  their  work  has  been,  or  can 
be,  judged ; — and  rightly  so  if  we  remember  that  art 
embraces  all  life  and  all  humanity,  and  sees  in  the  tem- 
porary and  fleeting  doctrines  of  conservative  or  revolu- 
tionary only  the  human  grandeur  or  passion  that  inspires 
them." 

His  own  volume  had  been  written  "  with  the  single  inten- 
tion of  creating  beauty." 

Though  many  of  his  own  poems  show  the  "  tendency  to 
use  traditional  forms  and  even  to  employ  classical  subjects," 
Flecker  did  not,  it  must  be  observed,  dogmatize  as  to 


xxi 


choice  of  subject  or  generalize  too  widely.     The  Parnassians 
were  not  everything  to  him,  nor  were  those  older  poets 
who  had  resembled  them.     It  was  as  a  corrective  that  he 
recommended  the  study  of  this  particular  group  to  his 
English  contemporaries.     It  is  arguable  that  most  of  his 
major  contemporaries — one  might  instance  Mr.   Bridges 
and  Mr.  Yeats — are  anything  but  chaotic,  extravagant, 
careless,  or  didactic.     References  to  "  the  latest  writer  of 
manly  tales  in  verse  "  and  "  formlessness  "  might  certainly 
be  followed  up ;   but  formlessness  and  moralizing  are  not 
so  universal  amongst  modern  English  writers  as  Flecker, 
making  out  his  case,  implied.     It  does  not  matter ;    there 
is  not  even  any  necessity  to  discuss  the  French  Parnassians. 
Flecker  had  an  affinity  with  them.    He  disliked  the  pedes- 
trian and  the  wild ;    he  did  not  care  either  to  pile  up 
dramatic  horrors  or  to  burrow  in  the  recesses  of  his  own 
psychological    or   physiological   structure.     He   liked    the 
image,  vivid,  definite  in  its  outline :   he  aimed  everywhere 
at  clarity  and  compactness.     His  most  fantastic  visions 
are  solid  and  highly  coloured  and  have  hard  edges.     His 
imagination  rioted  in  images,  but  he  kept  it  severely  under 
restraint,  lest  the  tropical  creepers  should  stifle  the  trees. 
Only  occasionally,  in  his  later  poems,  a  reader  may  find  the 
language  a  little  tumultuous  and  the  images  heaped  so 
profusely  as  to  produce  an  effect  of  obscurity  and,  some- 
times, of  euphuism.     But  these  poems,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered, are  precisely  those  which  the  poet  himself  did  not 
finally   revise.     Some   of   them   he   never   even   finished : 
"  The  Burial  in  England,"  as  it  appears,  is  the  best  that 
can  be  done  with  a  confusing  collection    of   manuscript 


xxu 


thoughts  and  second  thoughts.  He  was,  as  he  claimed, 
constitutionally  a  classic ;  but  the  term  must  not  be 
employed  too  rigidly.  He  was,  in  fact,  like  Flaubert,  both 
a  classic  and  a  romantic.  He  combined,  like  Flaubert, 
a  romantic  taste  for  the  exotic,  the  gorgeous,  and  the 
violent,  with  a  dislike  for  the  romantic  egoism,  looseness 
of  structure,  and  turgidity  of  phrase.  His  objectivity, 
in  spite  of  all  his  colour,  was  often  very  marked  ;  but  there 
was  another  trend  in  him.  Though  he  never  wrote  slack 
and  reasonless  vers  libres,  the  more  he  developed  the  more 
he  experimented  with  new  rhythms ;  and  one  of  his  latest 
and  best  lyrics  was  the  intensely  personal  poem  "  Stillness." 
He  ran  no  special  kind  of  subject  too  hard,  and  had  no 
refined  and  restricted  dictionary  of  words.  A  careful 
reader,  of  course,  may  discover  that  there  are  words,  just 
as  there  are  images,  which  he  was  especially  fond  of  using. 
There  are  colours  and  metals,  blue  and  red,  silver  and  gold, 
which  are  present  everywhere  in  his  work ;  the  progresses 
of  the  sun  (he  was  always  a  poet  of  the  sunlight  rather  than 
a  poet  of  the  moonlight)  were  a  continual  fascination  to 
him ;  the  images  of  Fire,  of  a  ship,  and  of  an  old  white- 
bearded  man  recur  frequently  in  his  poems.  But  he  is 
anything  but  a  monotonous  poet,  in  respect  either  of  forms, 
subjects,  or  language.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  that 
he  should  be  on  his  guard  against  falling  into  a  customary 
jargon.  Revising  "  The  Welsh  Sea "  and  rinding  the 
word  "  golden,"  which  he  felt  he  and  others  had  overdone, 
used  three  times  (and  not  ineffectively)  in  it,  he  expunged 
the  adjective  outright,  putting  "  yellow  "  in  the  first  two 
places  and  "  slow  green  "  in  the  third.     His  preface  on 


xxm 


Parnassianism  was  whole-hearted  ;  but  any  one  who  inter- 
preted some  of  his  sentences  as  implying  a  desire  to  restrict 
either  the  poet's  field  or  his  expression  to  a  degree  that 
might  justifiably  be  termed  narrow  would  be  in  error. 
In  one  respect,  perhaps,  his  plea  was  a  plea  for  widening ; 
he  did  not  wish  to  exclude  the  classical  subject.  And  his 
declaration  that  poetry  should  not  be  written  to  carry  a 
message  but  to  embody  a  perception  of  beauty  did  not 
preclude  a  message  in  the  poetry.  His  last  poems,  includ- 
ing "  The  Burial  in  England,"  may  be  restrained  but  are 
scarcely  impersonal,  may  not  be  didactic  but  are  none 
the  less  patriotic.  He  need  not,  in  fact,  be  pinned  to  every 
word  of  his  preface  separately.  The  drift  of  the  whole  is 
evident.  He  himself,  like  other  people,  would  not  have 
been  where  he  was  but  for  the  Romantic  movement ;  but 
he  thought  that  English  verse  was  in  danger  of  decompo- 
sition. He  merely  desired  to  emphasize  the  dangers  both 
of  prosing  and  of  personal  paroxysms ;  and,  above  all,  to 
insist  upon  careful  craftsmanship. 

This  careful  craftsmanship  had  been  his  own  aim  from 
the  beginning.  "  Libellum  arida  modo  pumice  expolitum  " 
is  a  phrase  in  the  first  of  the  Catullus  epigrams  he  trans- 
lated at  school ;  and,  whilst  the  content  of  his  poetry  showed 
a  steadily  growing  strength  of  passion  and  thought,  its 
form  was  subjected  to,  though  it  never  too  obviously 
"  betrayed,"  an  increasingly  assiduous  application  of 
pumice-stone  and  file.  His  poems  were  written  and  re- 
written before  they  were  printed ;  some  were  completely 
remodelled  after  their  first  publication ;  and  he  was 
continually  returning  to  his  old  poems  to  make  alterations 


xxiv 


in  single  words  or  lines — many  of  his  recent  MS.  altera- 
tions are  now  incorporated  for  the  first  time.  His  changes 
at  their  most  extensive  may  be  seen  in  the  development 
of  "  The  Bridge  of  Fire,"  in  that  (both  versions  are  given 
in  this  volume)  of  "  Narcissus,"  and  in  that  of  "  Tenebris 
Interlucentem."     As  first  published  this  ran  : 

Once  a  poor  song-bird  that  had  lost  her  way 
Sang  down  in  hell  upon  a  blackened  bough, 
Till  all  the  lazy  ghosts  remembered  how 
The  forest  trees  stood  up  against  the  day. 

Then  suddenly  they  knew  that  they  had  died, 
Hearing  this  music  mock  their  shadow-land  ; 
And  some  one  there  stole  forth  a  timid  hand 
To  draw  a  phantom  brother  to  his  side. 

In  the  second  version,  also  of  eight  lines,  each  line  is 
shorter  by  two  syllables : 

A  linnet  who  had  lost  her  way 
Sang  on  a  blackened  bough  in  Hell, 
Till  all  the  ghosts  remembered  well 
The  trees,  the  wind,  the  golden  day. 

At  last  they  knew  that  they  had  died 
When  they  heard  music  in  that  land, 
And  some  one  there  stole  forth  a  hand 
To  draw  a  brother  to  his  side. 

The  details  of  this  drastic  improvement  are  worth  study- 
ing. The  treatment  of  the  first  line  is  typical.  The 
general    word    "  song-bird "    goes,    the    particular    word 


xxv 


"  linnet "  is  substituted ;  and  the  superfluous  adjective 
is  cut  out,  like  several  subsequent  ones.  "  Gravis  Dulcis 
Immutabilis "  was  originally  written  as  a  sonnet ;  the 
"  Invitation  to  a  Young  but  Learned  Friend  "  was  con- 
siderably lengthened  after  an  interval  of  years ;  and  the 
poet's  own  copies  of  his  printed  volumes  are  promiscuously 
marked  with  minor  alterations  and  re-alterations.  One  of 
the  most  curious  is  that  by  which  the  sexes  are  transposed 
in  the  song  printed  first  as  "  The  Golden  Head "  and 
then  as  "  The  Queen's  Song."  The  last  four  lines  of  the 
first  stanza  originally  ran : 

I  then  might  touch  thy  face 

Delightful  Maid, 
And  leave  a  metal  grace, 

A  graven  head. 

This  was  altered  into  : 

I  then  might  touch  thy  face 

Delightful  boy, 
And  leave  a  metal  grace, 

A  graven  joy. 

The  reasons  for  the  alteration  are  evident.  The  sounds 
"  ace "  and  "  aid "  are  uncomfortably  like  each  other ; 
the  long,  lingering  "  oy  "  makes  a  much  better  ending  of 
the  stanza  than  the  sound  for  which  it  was  substituted ; 
and  the  false  parallelism  of  "  metal  grace  "  and  "  graven 
head  "  was  remedied  by  eliminating  the  concrete  word  and 
replacing  it  by  another  abstract  one  on  the  same  plane  as 
"  grace."  Such  a  substitution  of  the  abstract  for  the 
concrete  word,  sound  enough  here,  is  very  rare  with  him ; 


xxvi 


normally  the  changes  were  the  other  way  round.  He 
preferred  the  exact  word  to  the  vague ;  he  was  always  on 
his  guard  against  the  "  pot-shot "  and  the  complaisant 
epithet  which  will  fit  in  anywhere.  With  passionate  de- 
liberation he  clarified  and  crystallized  his  thoughts  and 
intensified  his  pictures. 

He  found,  as  has  been  said,  kinship  in  the  French  Par- 
nassians :  and,  though  he  approached  them  rather  as  a 
comrade  than  as  a  disciple,  traces  of  their  language, 
especially  perhaps  that  of  de  Regnier  and  Heredia,  may 
be  found  in  his  later  verse.  A  reading  of  Heredia  is  surely 
evident  in  the  "  Gates  of  Damascus  "  :  in 

Beyond  the  towns,  an  isle  where,  bound,  a  naked  giant 

bites  the  ground  : 
The  shadow  of  a  monstrous  wing  looms  on  his  back : 

and  still  no  sound. 

and  the  stanzas  surrounding  it.  An  influence  still  more 
marked  is  that  of  Sir  Richard  Burton.  Flecker,  when  still 
a  boy,  had  copied  out  the  whole  of  his  long  "  Kasidah," 
and  its  rhythms  and  turns  of  phrase  are  present  in  several  of 
his  Syrian  poems.  It  was  in  the  "  Kasidah  "  that  Flecker 
found  Aflatun  and  Aristu,  and  the  refrain  of  "  the  tinkling 
of  the  camel-bells  "  of  which  he  made  such  fine  use  in 
"  The  Golden  Journey."  The  verse-form  of  the  "  Kasidah  " 
is,  of  course,  not  Burton's,  it  is  Eastern ;  and  the  use 
Flecker  made  of  it  suggests  that  an  infusion  of  Persian 
and  Arabic  forms  into  English  verse  might  well  be  a  ferti- 
lizing agent.  He  always  read  a  great  deal  of  Latin  verse : 
Latin  poetry  was  as  much  to  him  as  Greek  history,  myth, 

xxvii 


and  landscape.  Francis  Thompson,  Baudelaire,  and  Swin- 
burne were  all  early  "  influences."  He  learnt  from  them 
but  he  was  seldom  mastered  by  them.  He  did  not  imitate 
their  rhythms  or  borrow  their  thought.  The  Swinburnian 
"  Anapaests  " — in  the  first  volume — written  in  a  weak 
moment,  were  an  exception.  In  Flecker's  printed  copy 
the  title  has  first,  in  a  half-hearted  effort  to  save  the  poem 
whilst  repudiating  its  second-hand  music  and  insincere 
sentiments,  been  changed  to  "  Decadent  Poem "  ;  and 
then  a  thick  pencil  has  been  drawn  right  through  it.  From 
his  English  contemporaries  Flecker  was  detached.  He 
admired  some  of  them — Mr.  Yeats,  Mr.  A.  E.  Housman, 
Mr.  de  la  Mare,  and  others  ;  and  with  some  he  was  friendly, 
especially  Rupert  Brooke,  with  whom  he  had  been  at  Cam- 
bridge. Of  Mr.  Chesterton's  "  Flying  Inn  "  he  writes  in 
January  1914  :  "  A  magnificent  book — his  masterpiece  ; 
and  the  humorous  verse  splendid."  But  his  physical 
absence,  first  in  the  Levant  and  then  in  Switzerland, 
in  itself  prevented  him  from  getting  into  any  literary 
set,  and  his  temperament  and  opinion  of  current  tendencies 
was  such  that,  even  had  he  lived  in  England,  he  would 
probably  have  escaped  "  infection "  by  any  school  or 
individual.  Flecker's  vision  of  the  world  was  his  own  ; 
his  dreams  of  the  East  and  Greece  were  born  with  him. 
He  knew  the  streets  of  Stamboul  and  the  snows  of  Lebanon, 
and  the  caravans  departing  for  Bagdad  and  the  gates 
of  Damascus,  and  the  bazaars  heaped  with  grapes  and 
"  coffee-tables  botched  with  pearl  and  little  beaten  brass- 
ware  pots  "  ;  but  his  hankering  long  antedated  his  travels. 
There  is  an  unpublished  poem  written  when  he  was  twenty 


xxvm 


in  which  voices  call  him  "  to  white  ^Egean  isles  among  the 
foam  "  and  the  "  dreamy  painted  lands  "  of  the  East.  In 
the  same  year  he  translated  Propertius  I,  xx.  His  life- 
long love  of  Greek  names  is  shown  by  his  enunciation  of 
them  even  then : 

But  Oreithyia's  sons  have  left  him  now  : 
Hylas,  most  foolish  boy,  where  goest  thou  ? 

He  is  going  to  the  Hamadryades, 
To  them  devoted — I  will  tell  you  how. 

There's  a  clear  well  beneath  Arganthos'  screes 
Wherein  Bithynian  Naiads  take  their  ease, 

By  leafage  overarched,  where  apples  hide 
Whilst  the  dew  kisses  them  on  the  unknown  trees. 

This  poem  is  dated  1904.  It  is  the  year  of  the  Glion 
stanzas,  the  sonnet  on  Francis  Thompson,  and  (probably) 
the  fragmentary  "  Ode  on  Shelley."  It  is  the  year,  that 
is,  when  Flecker  began  to  show  marks  of  maturity.  The 
translation,  like  a  number  of  other  early  poems  quoted 
above,  has  not  been  included  in  the  present  collection, 
as  it  is  certain  that  Flecker  would  not  have  wished  it. 
Just  enough  of  his  unpublished  "  Juvenilia  "  have  been 
included  to  illustrate  his  development,  and  it  may  be 
alleged  without  rashness  that  those  selected  are  the  best 
of  their  respective  periods. 

Whatever  may  be  said  about  the  poems  which  follow, 
there  are  few  which  are  not  characteristic  of  the  poet. 
His  rigorous  conception  of  his  art  and  his  fidelity  to  his 
own  vision  prevented  many  lapses,  and  he  suppressed 
those  which  he  did  commit.     One  unrepresentative  phrase 


there  is  which  might  be  seized  on  to  give  a  very  untrue 
description  of  him.  In  the  Envoy  to  "  The  Bridge  of 
Fire  "  he  speaks  of  himself  as  "  the  lean  and  swarthy  poet 
of  despair."  It  meant  nothing ;  the  first  poem  in  the 
same  book,  with  its  proclamation  that  "  the  most  surprising 
songs"  must  still  be  sung,  and  its  challenge  to  youth  to 
turn  to  "  the  old  and  fervent  goddess  "  whose  eyes  are  "  the 
silent  pools  of  Light  and  Truth  "  is  far  more  characteristic 
of  him,  first  and  last.  "  Lean  and  swarthy  poet "  may 
stand ;  but  not  of  despair.  The  beauty  of  the  world  was 
a  continual  intoxication  to  him ;  he  was  full,  as  a  man, 
if  not  as  a  poet,  of  enthusiasms,  moral  and  material, 
economic,  educational,  and  military.  Neither  the  real  nor 
the  spurious  disease  of  pessimism  is  present  in  his  verse ; 
and  in  his  last  autumn  he  was  writing,  with  an  energy 
that  sometimes  physically  exhausted  him,  poems  that 
blazed  with  courage,  hope,  and  delight.  Like  his  "  Old 
Battleship,"  he  went  down  fighting. 

The  value  of  what  he  has  left  it  is  not,  as  I  have  said 
before,  my  intention  to  discuss  here.  My  only  object  in 
writing  this  necessarily  rather  disjointed  Introduction  is  to 
give  some  information  that  may  interest  the  reader  and 
be  useful  to  the  critic  ;  and  if  a  few  personal  opinions  have 
slipped  in  they  may  conveniently  be  ignored.  A  vehement 
"  puff  preliminary "  is  an  insolence  in  a  volume  of  this 
kind :  it  might  pardonably  be  supposed  to  imply  either 
doubts  about  the  author  or  distrust  of  his  readers. 

J.  C.  SQUIRE 


XXX 


Editorial  Note 


Twenty  of  the  poems  in  this  edition  have  never  been  published 
before,  or  have  appeared  only  in  periodicals.  These  may  be 
distinguished  by  the  dates  which  are  appended  beneath  them. 
The  whole  of  the  poems  published  in  book  form  during  the 
poefs  lifetime  are  reprinted  with  the  exception  of  seven  lyrics 
which  there  is  reason  to  believe  he  did  not  desire  to  perpetuate. 
Of  the  new  ones  several  are  "Juvenilia"  written  between  the 
ages  of  sixteen  and  twenty >,  which  have  been  included  in  order 
to  illustrate  his  development. 

The  poems  are  arranged  in  a  roughly  chronological  order  ; 
those  written  in  the  years  1907-10  following  most  nearly 
{more  information  as  to  date  being  available  with  these)  the 
actual  order  of  composition. 

The  text  of  many,  especially  of  the  early,  poems  will  be 
found  to  differ  considerably  from  that  hitherto  printed,  owing 
to  Fleckers  habit  of  continual  revision.  In  some  of  the 
MSS.  there  are  variant  readings  from  which  the  present 
editor  has  been  compelled  to  select.  The  fragments  of  the 
"  Ode  to  Shelley  "  presented  the  most  difficult  problem,  and 
the  order  in  which  they  are  placed  is  not  to  be  presumed  the 
correct  order. 


JUVENILIA 


Four  Translations  and  Adaptations 
from  Catullus 


For  whom  this  pretty  pamphlet,  polished  new 

With  pumice-stone  ?     Cornelius,  for  you  : 

For  you  were  never  unprepared  to  deem 

My  simple  verses  worthy  of  esteem, 

Though  you  yourself — who  else  in  Rome  so  bold  ? — 

In  volumes  three  have  laboured  to  unfold 

A  "  Universal  History  of  Man  " — 

Dear  Jove  !     A  learned  and  laborious  plan  ! 


Wherefore  to  you,  my  friend,  I  dedicate 
This  so  indifferent  bookling  ;  yet  I  pray, 
Poor  as  it  is — O  goddess  of  my  fate, 
Let  it  outlive  the  writer's  transient  day  ! 


1900  (?)  :   cet.  16 


Ill 


Cupids  and  loves,  and  men  of  gentler  mien, 
Mourn,  for  my  lady's  loved  one  is  dead, 
Her  darling  sparrow  that  to  her  hath  been 
Dearer  than  her  own  eyes  :   even  as  a  maid 
Loveth  her  mother,  so  had  he  been  bred 
To  know  his  mistress.     He  was  honeysweet 
Nor  ever  truant  from  her  bosom  strayed, 
But  there  would  twitter  from  his  soft  retreat. 
And  now — he's  flitting  down  the  Shadow  Way, 
Ah,  never  to  return  !     A  curse  on  ye, 
Black  shades  of  death,  that  let  no  fair  thing  stay ; 
How  fair  a  sparrow  have  ye  snatched  from  me  ! 


Poor  birdie — all  for  thee  the  teardrops  rise, 

Till  red  with  weeping  are  my  Love's  bright  eyes. 


1900 


IV 


Proud  is  Phaselus  here,  my  friends,  to  tell 
That  once  she  was  the  swiftest  craft  afloat : 
No  vessel,  were  she  winged  with  blade  or  sail 
Could  ever  pass  my  boat. 


Phaselus  shunned  to  shun  grim  Adria's  shore, 

Or  Cyclades,  or  Rhodes  the  wide  renowned, 

Or  Bosphorus,  where  Thracian  waters  roar, 

Or  Pontus'  eddying  sound. 

It  was  in  Pontus  once,  unwrought,  she  stood, 

And  conversed,  sighing,  with  her  sister  trees, 

Amastris  born,  or  where  Cytorus'  wood 

Answers  the  mountain  breeze. 

Pontic  Amastris,  boxwood-clad  Cytorus  !  — 

You,  says  Phaselus,  are  her  closest  kin : 

Yours  were  the  forests  where  she  stood  inglorious : 

The  waters  yours  wherein 

She  dipped  her  virgin  blades ;    and  from  your  strand 

She  bore  her  master  through  the  cringing  straits, 

Nought  caring  were  the  wind  on  either  hand, 

Or  whether  kindly  fates 

Filled  both  the  straining  sheets.     Never  a  prayer 

For  her  was  offered  to  the  gods  of  haven, 

Till  last  she  left  the  sea,  hither  to  fare, 

And  to  be  lightly  laven 

By  the  cool  ripple  of  the  clear  lagoon. 


This  too  is  past ;   at  length  she  is  allowed 
Long  slumber  through  her  life's  long  afternoon, 
To  Castor  and  the  twin  of  Castor  vowed. 


1901 


X 


When  lounging  idle  mid  forensic  whirl, 

Friend  Varus  took  me  off  to  see  his  girl. 

The  naughty  wench,  I  very  soon  was  shewn, 

Had  got  some  wit  and  beauty  of  her  own. 

Arriving,  we  began  a  busy  chat 

On  politics,  and  weather,  this  and  that — 

Then  on  my  province's  internal  state, 

And  "  Had  I  found  the  profit  adequate  ?  " 

I  answered  truthfully,  "  There's  nothing  there 

For  common  soldier  or  for  officer 

Wherewith  to  purchase  grease  for  home-bound  hair." 

"  You  found  at  least  " — said  she — "  one  always  can  : 

Some  aboriginals  for  your  sedan  ?  " 

Said  I  in  answer,  posing  for  her  eyes 

In  prosperous  and  fashionable  guise, 

"  Oh,  really,  I  was  not  so  penniless 

That  any  mere  provincial  distress 

Should  render  me  incompetent  to  get 

Eight  smartish  bearers  for  the  voiturette." 

(In  truth  there  was  no  slave  in  all  the  earth 

Whom  I  could  then  have  summoned  to  my  hearth 

To  shoulder  the  debilitated  leg 

Of  my  old  pallet).     "  Then,  dear  friend,  I  beg  " — 

Cries  she  most  aptly  for  so  bad  a  minx — 

"  I  want  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  Sphinx — 

You'll  lend  them  me  just  to  the  temple  door, 

My  sweet  Catullus  ?  * 


"  Oh,  you  may  be  sure  "- 
Said  I — "  I  would — but  what  I  mentioned  now 
As  mine — I  just  forgot — what  matter  how  ? — 
My  messmate  Cinna,  Gaius  Cinna,  he 
Has  commandeered  them.     Really,  as  for  me, 
What  difference  if  you  call  them  his  or  mine  ? 
I  use  them  just  whenever  I  incline. 
But  you're  a  silly  pestilential  jade 
To  want  a  chance  remark  so  nicely  weighed." 


1901 


Sir  mi o 


Little  gem  of  all-but-islands  and  of  islands,  Sirmio, 
Whether  set  in  landlocked  waters,  or  in  Ocean's  freer  flow — 
Oh  the  pleasant  seeing  of  thee,  bright  as  ever — there  below — 
Far  behind  me,  to  the  Northward,  lie  the  dreamy  lands 

of  snow. 
Oh  the  hour  of  mad  rejoicing,  oh  the  sweet  good-bye  to  woe 
As  with  quiet  soul  aweary  of  world-wandering  to  and  fro 
In  we  hurry  through  the  doorway  of  our  home  of  long 

ago.  .  .  . 
Hail  then,  hail !     Thy  master  welcome,  welcome  him, 

sweet  Sirmio, 
Leap  for  joy,  ye  tumbling  waters,  winking  at  the  summer's 

glow, 
Gaily  through  the  house  resounding  let  the  peals  of  laughter 

1901 — 04 


Lucretia 


As  one  who  in  the  cold  abyss  of  night 
Stares  at  a  book  whose  grey  print  meaningless 
Dances  between  the  lamplight  and  his  eyes, 
Lucretius  lay,  soul-poisoned,  conquering  still 
With  towering  travail  Reason's  Hellene  heights. 
Listen,  Lucretia,  to  the  voice  of  his  pain  : 


Thrice  welcome  hour  of  Reason  :   ne'er  of  old 

Knew  I  thy  naked  loveliness,  till  night, 

The  nether  night  of  Folly  pinioned  forth, 

Shrouded  my  senses,  taught  me  terribly 

That  thou  alone,  my  light  and  life  and  love, 

Wearest  the  high  insignia  of  the  stars. 

Grant  then  thy  worshipper,  austerest  Queen, 

Refreshing  dews — Now,  now,  I  thirst  with  flame  : 

They  flee  the  strainings  of  my  fevered  lips 

Cruelly,  and  in  dank  distance  a  new  noise 

Of  rushing  wings  I  hear.    Who  thunders  nigh  ? 

Devil  delirium,  chaos  charioted, 

Curb,  curb,  the  coal-red  chargers,  heard  not  seen. 

See,  Madam  Wife,  that  loveless  lust  of  thine 


Leaves  no  sweet  savour  lingering,  but  a  curse : 
And  'stead  of  Love  and  Reason,  palace  tenant, 
There  flits  a  weak  and  tremulous  loathsomeness  ! 


Suppliant  fled  Lucretia  to  the  couch  : 
And  all  her  glory  trembled  as  she  sang 


Awake,  dead  soul  of  dear  Lucretius, 
Awake,  thy  witless  fond  destroyer  prays. 
Awake,  awake,  and  quit  thy  aimless  journey 
In  old  oblivion's  purple-misted  paths. 

Dost  thou  remember,  husband  ?     It  was  evening  : 
We  wandered  shorewards,  mid  the  ocean  of  air 
That  glassed  the  gliding  Nereids  of  the  Pole. 
Immeasurable  moonlight  kissed  the  brow 
Of  the  white  sea  whose  ripples  swayed  to  greet 
Our  heart's  unnumbered  laughter.     Strongest  sleep 
So  held  the  life  of  earth  that  dimly  we  heard 
Time's  fatal  pulse  through  the  dark  reverberated. 
Then  died  thy  soul :  that  night  I,  murderess,  dreamt, 
Ah,  dolorous  dreams  of  limb-dissolving  love. 
Lucretius, 

Why  live  I  still,  protracting  hopeless  pain  ? 
The  dullness  of  the  long  Lethean  stream 
Is  more  to  be  commended  for  my  sailings 
Than  love's  hot  eddies. 

God,  for  the  draught  of  death  ! 
What  sourer,  sweeter  vintage  could  be  pressed  ? 


10 


To  slumber  shall  I  lull  me,  where  no  sorrow 
Can  pierce  the  drifted  overmantling  haze : 
No  sorrow,  no  despair,  nor  any  love ! 


My  soul  is  thine,  husband,  thy  mad  soul. 
Madness,  swift  foretaste  of  oblivion 
Shall  wed  us  to  delirious  dim  despair 
Till  bone  claim  bone  beneath  the  cypress  tree. 
What  pleasant  dawn  of  madness  !     Off  I  rend 
This  fair  hypocrisy  of  raiment.     Down — 
There's  fairer  guile  within — down,  frippery  ! 
Veil  me  not  from  my  love.     Dear  arms  outstretched, 
Am  I  not  fair  ?     These  quick  white  limbs  of  mine 
Shall  brand  in  thee  their  passionate  symmetry, 
Till  as  the  bee  within  the  lily  trembles 
Thyself,  body  and  soul,  shall  move  within  me. 
Has  sculptured  Venus  thighs  of  richer  vein  ? 
Spread  thyself  round  about  me ;   let  us  wrench 
Self  unto  self.     Why  life  is  lovely  still ! 

Fair  wings  of  madness,  drift  us  far  away 
To  an  unseen  Empyrean,  where  no  care 
Can  frost  the  magic  mirror  of  our  loves. 
Thence  we  shall  see  the  sorrowful  world  of  men, 
Old  castles  fired,  old  mountains  overturned, 
Old  majesties  conculcate  in  the  dust, 
With  short  sad  smiles  for  every  thing  destroyed. 

Why  do  red  eyes  draw  nearer  ?     Husband,  wake  ! 
The  palace  is  fired  and  falling  !     Not  with  love 
Thy  body's  life,  that  throbs  within  me,  burns 


II 


Lucretius — those  same  eyes,  grey  Furies  wear  them, 
They  seethe  in  double  dullness  'neath  their  own  ! 


Thus  muttered  she  in  dread  :  he  glaring  lay  : 
Passion  had  made  him  beast,  and  passion  sated 
Did  leave  him  than  the  beasts  more  bestial. 
Till  phantomed  reason  fled  his  turning  brain 
And  with  a  cry  he  struck  her  from  his  breast, 
Heavily,  and  her  hair,  like  the  finger  of  night, 
Pencilled  the  marble  as  she  fell,  and  cried  : 


Kill  me  not,  devil :   off,  blood-searching  hands  ; 

Nay,  strike  me  thus — and  rend  me  thus,  and  thus  : 

I  would  not  be  the  mother  of  mad  children. 

Burst  forth,  my  blood,  burst  forth  from  wound  and  weal. 

The  body's  pain  is  blister  for  the  soul's. 


Then,  as  her  anguish  slumbered  for  awhile  : 


Oh  for  a  word  of  consolation  dear 
Sadder  than  dirge  from  old  Simonides, 
Sweeter  than  echoes  of  the  Linos  song 
Whispering  through  the  drowsy  sheaves  of  corn 
On  summer  evenings,  when  the  harvesters 
Jiomeward  return,  and  children  rush  to  greet 
Their  father,  and  to  snatch  the  kisses  first — 


12 


But  a  new  torment  rent  her,  and  she  rose  ; 
Her  veins  large-knotted,  standing  out  in  fire  ; 
She  grasped  his  arm  and  shrieked  to  the  solemn  sun 
'That  rolled  in  horror  down  the  Western  Sea  : 


There,  red-eyed  Fury — with  lash  and  terrible  hiss, 
With  lash  and  terrible  hiss  of  steaming  snakes — 
Blood  from  the  breast-wound  drips,  and  from  my  heart, 
And  from  those  eyes,  and  from  the  pillars — See 
There,  and  the  statues  move.     Take  away  the  blank  eyes  ! 

Oh  wild,  wild  irony  of  Life  and  Lust, 
Life  is  to  death  so  near,  and  lust  to  loathing. 
All  is  a  jest,  a  shadow,  and  a  lie, 
A  whirlwind-wondrous  lie ! 

Laugh,  husband,  laugh ! 
Laughter  is  man's  supreme  prerogative  : 
The  beasts  are  sane ;    they  laugh  not.     I  will  laugh, 
My  bones  and  flesh  are  quaking.     Laugh,  thou  fool ! 
For  love  is  lust,  and  life  is  a  dream  of  death 
— Hell  is  opening,  opening  horribly. 


March  1904 


13 


Song  in  the  Night 

{From  Bierbaum) 

Streets  to  left,  and  streets  to  right, 

Dull  and  dank  it  seems, 
As  I  wander  in  the  night 
Wakened  from  my  dreams. 
Yearning, 
Burning, 
Pain  and  smart, 
Whither  dost  thou  sink,  my  heart  ? 
Whither  dost  thou  sink,  my  heart  ? 

There's  a  house  with  shutters  green 

Far  away  from  town, 
Where  the  river  rolls  serene 
Moving,  murmuring  down. 
Bowers, 
Flowers ! 
Fold  it  in ! 
Would  I  were  a  guest  within  ! 
Would  I  were  a  guest  within  ! 

June  1904 


Glion — Noon 


From  Glion  on  an  August  noon 
I  scarcely  see  the  ripples  shine 

Where  sunbeam  spirits  lightly  swoon 
On  drifting  shrouds  of  cyanine. 


The  Dent  du  Midi  now  uprears 
His  proud  tiara  through  the  mist, 

The  sacred  crown  whose  triple  tiers 
Are  walls  of  Titan  amethyst. 


A  voiceless,  dreamless  paradise 
Of  fleeting  and  fantastic  form 

More  lovely  than  the  fierce  sunrise, 
More  visionary  than  the  storm. 


Here  would  I  dream  away  long  years 
Till  with  the  mountains  I  was  one, 

Knowing  not  loves  or  hates  or  fears, 
Standing  immutably  alone. 


IS 


Glion — Evening 


From  Glion  when  the  sun  declines 

The  world  below  is  clear  to  see  : 
I  count  the  escalading  pines 

Upon  the  rocks  of  Meillerie. 

Like  a  dull  bee  the  steamer  plies 

And  settles  on  the  jutting  pier  : 
The  barques,  strange  sailing  butterflies, 

Round  idle  headlands  idly  veer. 

The  painted  sceneries  recall 

Such  toil  as  Canaletto  spent 
To  give  each  brick  upon  each  wall 

Its  due  partition  of  cement. 

Yet  rather  seem  those  lands  below 

From  Glion  at  the  close  of  day 
As  vivid  as  a  cameo 

Graved  by  the  poet  Gautier. 

July  1904 


16 


Last  Love 

{From  Novalis — adaptation  of  his  last  words) 

Now  for  a  last  glad  look  upon  life  :   my  journey  is  ending  : 

Now  this  door  that  is  Death  quietly  shuts  me  behind. 

Thankful  I  hear  Love's  call — the  faithful  call  of  a  comrade  : 

Then  all  joyful  am  I,  ready  to  give  her  my  heart. 

All  through  life  it  is  Love  hath  been  my  counsellor  only  : 

Hers  be  the  praise  alway  if  I  have  followed  aright. 

For  as  a  mother  awakes  with  kisses  her  slumbering  baby, 

As  she  first  has  a  care — as  she  alone  understands — 

So  has  Love  been  mine,  has  watched  and  tended  and  kissed 

me : 
Near  me  when  I  was  a  child  :  near  me  till  I  was  a  man. 
Thus,  mid  sorrow  or  doubt,  I  have  clung  to  her,  learning 

her  lesson : 
Now  she  has  made  me  free — free  to  rejoice  evermore. 

1904  ? 


17 


Fragments  of  an  Ode  to  Shelley 


Since  men  have  always  crowned  the  tomb- 

With  those  sweet  diadems  of  doom;, 

The  twinings  of  memorial  flowers, 

So  that  their  brother's  first  few  hours 

Of  waiting  in  his  lonely  room 

May  pass  in  peace  while  Time  devours 

The  body's  brief  and  bitter  bloom, 

The  last  extortion  of  sad  powers, 

And  downwards  through  the  grudging  soil 

The  piteous  perfumes  strain  and  toil, 


II 


Let  the  kind  ritual  remain  : 

We  seek  an  emblem  of  our  pain — 

The  dry  scant  holly  of  the  shore, 

The  grass  upon  the  dunes— What  more 

Can  sorrow  bring  ?     We  cannot  drain 


18 


The  spacious  Sea  for  his  rich  store 

Of  coloured  weeds  that  shine  in  vain 

Upon  the  wide  inhuman  floor, 

The  lonely  yard  where  drowned  men  lie 

And  gaze  through  water  to  white  sky. 


Ill 


Forgive,  thou  calm  and  godlike  shade, 

The  drooping  wreath,  the  flowers  that  fade, 

This  passionless  pale  offering 

From  one  who  scarcely  dares  to  sing 

His  love  and  praises,  being  afraid 

At  the  sweet  brilliance  of  thy  spring, 

Seeing  his  lute  is  rudely  made, 

His  thoughts  too  dull  and  weak  of  wing, 

More  fit  for  noons  that  lull  and  warm 

Than  for  the  stress  of  fire  and  storm. 


IV 


The  slender  boat  that  stretched  her  sail 
To  fly  before  the  sultry  gale, 
That  from  her  moorings  leapt  and  sped 
Before  the  forest  leaves  were  red, 
Before  the  purple  noon  was  pale, 


J9 


Round  whom  delight  and  fancy  spread 
Their  guardian  wings,  without  avail, 
Is  shipwrecked,  and  her  captain  dead. 
The  children  of  the  stainless  sea 
Laid  him  ashore  mysteriously,. 


0  none  of  those  who  came  to  mourn 
The  body  cold  and  water-worn, 
Nor  any  of  us  in  later  days 
Who  walk  at  evening  in  soft  ways 
Could  bring  thee  tribute  of  the  morn 
Or  any  music  that  repays 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  borne 
To  heaven  on  thy  fluted  phrase. 
Poets  have  wept ;   but  which  of  them 
Were  fit  to  sing  thy  requiem  ? 


VI 


That  song  shall  wait  till  delving  time 
Finds  the  lost  treasures  of  earth's  prime 
When  moil  and  tears  and  dire  distress 
Shall  flee  the  dawn  of  joyousness, 
When  some  new  monarch  of  sweet  rhyme 


20 


Or  mild  surprising  poetess, 

Some  Sappho  in  a  mood  sublime 

Or  Pindar  freed  and  fetterless, 

In  a  far  island  in  far  seas 

Shall  send  their  sorrow  down  the  breeze. 


O  shining  servant  of  the  evening  star 

Whom  no  soft  footfall  of  Lethean  song 

Delighted,  but  a  strong  celestial  war 

To  batter  down  the  gates  of  earthly  wrong, 

To  thee  old  Rhea  yielded  up  her  foison, 

Thou  rash  knight-errant  of  heroic  love, 

That  dreams  and  trances,  being  most  vital  poison 

To  whoso  looks  but  dares  not  live  above, 

For  thee,  who  wast  more  bold, 

Might  lead  to  earth  along  light  chains  of  gold, 

Lest  some  rebellious  airs  of  spirit 

Should  blow  each  image  into  windy  space 

Nor  leave  it  vocal,  to  inherit 

The  toil  and  triumph  of  our  mortal  race. 

O  thou  hast  shown  us  legions  in  the  skies, 

And  passed  the  earth  before  us  in  review 

Till  shadows  came  and  went  before  our  eyes, 

And  shafts  of  dim  desire  pierced  us  through, 

And  draughts  of  joyous  day 

And  winds  that  calmly  blew 
Swift  strength  and  splendour  in  our  dreams,  and  songs 
from  far  away. 


Zl 


Light  and  the  subtler  light  of  wizard  fire, 

And  winds  that  strike  forth  hope  on  some  grand  lyre, 

And  spirits  of  blue  air  like  April  clouds, 

And  all  the  water-company  that  crowds 

The  river-spaces  and  dark  open  sea, 

Conspired  at  his  creation  :    Liberty, 

Watching  his  prowess  from  her  tower  above, 

Took  to  her  side  a  royal-winged  Love. 

And  when  he  died  and  they  could  do  no  more 

To  strengthen  him  who  graced  that  southern  shore 

They  bade  a  clearer,  stronger  sun  arise 

And  drive  old  darkness  from  the  Italian  skies. 

#  #  * 

Many  there  be  to-day  whose  foolish  praise 
Has  dulled  the  roar  of  thy  old  fighting  days, 
So  that  thy  hymns  of  intellectual  joy 
Seem  but  fine  utterance  of  a  wayward  boy, 
Thy  call  of  war,  thy  thunderbolts  of  hate 
A  madman's  cry,  that  rails  against  his  fate  ; 
Who  find  in  them  a  vague  and  phantom  truth 
Or  dim  ideal  of  a  lovelorn  youth. 

«  •  * 

He  was  too  beautiful ;  he  died  too  young, 
Before  the  mellow  season  of  his  prime  ; 
Sweet  songs  he  left,  but  sweeter  songs  unsung, 
Whose  thin  ghosts  wander  out  of  space  and  time. 
All  his  philosophy  was  Love  and  Hate, 
His  life  a  rainbow  for  the  sun  to  fashion, 
His  thoughts  most  royally  importunate, 


22 


Forged  by  the  beats  of  elemental  passion. 

Like  some  young  tressed  tree 

That  sighs  to  each  .  .  .  wind,  so  he 

Stretched  arms  to  welcome  Love,  who  softly  winging 

Came  down  to  earth  from  lands  beyond  the  dawn  ; 

Her  strength  and  gentleness  inspired  his  singing, 

Until  she  stood  amazed,  from  whom  'twas  drawn. 

Spirit  of  love,  draw  near  this  monument 

And  veil  the  ancient  glory  of  thy  head, 

For  he  is  dead,  whose  silver  days  were  spent 

In  thy  eternal  service,  he  is  dead 

And  borne  aloft  away 

On  gloomy  wings  outspread 
More  strong  and  sure  than  thy  bright  plumes, 

O  mistress  of  a  day  ! 


[EPODE] 

Nothing  of  him  is  left  us,  save  this  scroll, 
The  fire-thrown  shadow  of  his  silent  soul, 
The  glass  whose  even  rondure  is  to  keep 
The  immortal  country  of  his  mortal  sleep. 
Where  terrors  move  and  angry  phantoms  cry, 
Titans  and  tyrants  in  a  ragged  sky, 
Where  in  tall  caves  magicians  read  the  rune, 
And  white  limbs  glitter  in  the  plenilune  ; 


23 


And  where  a  voice  more  human,  more  divine, 
Commends  a  brother  dead  to  Proserpine. 
But  now  that  Queen  of  undivided  rest 
Reopening  the  closures  of  her  breast 
Has  taken  our  royal-winged  child  of  light, 
And  bathed  his  forehead  in  the  pool  of  night. 

[Date  uncertain,  early] 


24 


LATER  POEMS 


A  New  Years  Carol 


Awake,  awake  !     The  world  is  young, 
For  all  its  weary  years  of  thought : 
The  starkest  rights  must  still  be  fought, 
The  most  surprising  songs  be  sung. 


And  those  who  have  no  other  Gods 
May  still  behold,  if  they  bestir, 
The  windy  amphitheatre 
Where  dawn  the  timeless  periods. 


Then  hear  the  shouting-voice  of  men 
Magniloquently  rise  and  ring  : 
Their  flashing  eyes  and  measured  swing 
Prove  that  the  world  is  young  again. 


I  was  beyond  the  hills,  and  heard 
That  old  and  fervent  Goddess  call, 
Whose  voice  is  like  a  waterfall, 
And  sweeter  than  the  singing-bird. 


27 


O  stubborn  arms  of  rosy  youth, 
Break  down  your  other  Gods,  and  turn 
To  where  her  dauntless  eyeballs  burn, — 
The  silent  pools  of  Light  and  Truth. 


28 


From  Grenoble 


Now  have  I  seen,  in  Graisivaudan's  vale, 

The  fruits  that  dangle  and  the  vines  that  trail, 

The  poplars  standing  up  in  bright  blue  air, 

The  silver  turmoil  of  the  broad  Isere 

And  sheer  pale  cliffs  that  wait  through  Earth's  long  noon 

Till  the  round  Sun  be  colder  than  the  Moon. 


Mine  be  the  ancient  song  of  Travellers  : 

I  hate  this  glittering  land  where  nothing  stirs  : 

I  would  go  back,  for  I  would  see  again 

Mountains  less  vast,  a  less  abundant  plain, 

The  Northern  Cliffs  clean-swept  with  driven  foam, 

And  the  rose-garden  of  my  gracious  home. 


29 


Narcissus 


0  thou  with  whom  I  dallied 
Through  all  the  hours  of  noon,- 

Sweet  water-boy,  more  pallid 
Than  any  watery  moon  ; 

Above  thy  body  turning 

White  lily-buds  were  strewn  : 

Alas,  the  silver  morning, 
Alas,  the  golden  noon  ! 

Alas,  the  clouds  of  sorrow, 
The  waters  of  despair  ! 

1  sought  thee  on  the  morrow, 
And  never  found  thee  there. 

Since  first  I  saw  thee  splendid, 
Since  last  I  called  thee  fair, 

My  happy  ways  have  ended 
By  waters  of  despair. 

The  pool  that  was  thy  dwelling 

I  hardly  knew  again, 
So  black  it  was,  and  swelling 

With  bitter  wind  and  rain. 

30 


Amid  the  reeds  I  lingered 
Between  desire  and  pain 

Till  evening,  rosy-fingered, 
Beckoned  to  night  again. 

Yet  once  when  sudden  quiet 

Had  visited  the  skies, 
And  stilled  the  stormy  riot, 

I  looked  upon  thine  eyes. 
I  saw  they  wept  and  trembled 

With  glittering  mysteries, 
But  yellow  clouds  assembled 

Redarkening  the  skies. 

O  listless  thou  art  lying 

In  waters  cool  and  sweet, 
While  I,  dumb  brother,  dying, 

Faint  in  the  desert  heat. 
Though  thou  dost  love  another, 

Still  let  my  lips  entreat : 
Men  call  me  fair,  O  brother, 

And  women  honey-sweet. 


31 


Inscription  for  Arthur  Rackhams 
Rip  Van  Winkle 


Since  youth  is  wise,  and  cannot  comprehend 

Proportion,  nor  behold  things  as  they  are, 

QiXoOeafMoves  we'll  be,  my  friend, 

And  laugh  at  what  appears  quadrangular. 

Our  only  Gods  shall  be  the  Subterrane, 

Pictures  of  things  misshapen,  harsh  and  crude, 

The  flattened  Face  outside  the  window-pane, 

The  little  Squeak  behind  us  in  the  wood. 

Here,  friend,  are  subtly  drawn  uncommon  things  : 

Make  such  your  Gods  :  they  only  understand. 

Only  a  Headless  Ape  with  slimy  wings 

Can  whisk  you  round  the  Interesting  Land. 

Though  after  twenty  years  they  may  not  please, 

Sane  men  have  worshipped  stranger  Gods  than  these. 


32 


Envoy 


The  young  men  leap,  and  toss  their  golden  hair, 
Run  round  the  land,  or  sail  across  the  seas  : 
But  one  was  stricken  with  a  sore  disease, — 
The  lean  and  swarthy  poet  of  despair. 


Know  me,  the  slave  of  fear  and  death  and  shame, 
A  sad  Comedian,  a  most  tragic  Fool, 
Shallow,  imperfect,  fashioned  without  rule, 
The  doubtful  shadow  of  a  demon  flame. 


33 


Riouperoux 


High  and  solemn  mountains  guard  Riouperoux, 
— Small  untidy  village  where  the  river  drives  a  mill : 
Frail  as  wood  anemones,  white  and  frail  were  you, 
And  drooping  a  little,  like  the  slender  daffodil. 


Oh  I  will  go  to  France  again,  and  tramp  the  valley  through, 
And  I  will  change  these  gentle  clothes  for  clog  and  corduroy, 
And  work  with  the  mill-hands  of  black  Riouperoux, 
And  walk  with  you,  and  talk  with  you,  like  any  other  boy. 


34 


Mignon 

(From  Goethe) 


Knowest  thou  the  land  where  bloom  the  lemon  trees, 

And  darkly  gleam  the  golden  oranges  ? 

A  gentle  wind  blows  down  from  that  blue  sky  ; 

Calm  stands  the  myrtle  and  the  laurel  high. 

Knowest  thou  the  land  ?     So  far  and  fair  ! 

Thou,  whom  I  love,  and  I  will  wander  there. 

Knowest  thou  the  house  with  all  its  rooms  aglow, 
And  shining  hall  and  columned  portico  ? 
The  marble  statues  stand  and  look  at  me. 
Alas,  poor  child,  what  have  they  done  to  thee  ? 
Knowest  thou  the  land  ?     So  far  and  fair. 
My  Guardian,  thou  and  I  will  wander  there. 

Knowest  thou  the  mountain  with  its  bridge  of  cloud  ? 
The  mule  plods  warily  :  the  white  mists  crowd. 
Coiled  in  their  caves  the  brood  of  dragons  sleep  ; 
The  torrent  hurls  the  rock  from  steep  to  steep. 
Knowest  thou  the  land  ?     So  far  and  fair. 
Father,  away  !     Our  road  is  over  there  ! 


35 


Tenebris  Inter lucentem 


A  linnet  who  had  lost  her  way 
Sang  on  a  blackened  bough  in  Hell, 
Till  all  the  ghosts  remembered  well 
The  trees,  the  wind,  the  golden  day. 


At  last  they  knew  that  they  had  died 
When  they  heard  music  in  that  land, 
And  some  one  there  stole  forth  a  hand 
To  draw  a  brother  to  his  side. 


36 


The  First  Sonnet  of  Bathrolaire 


Over  the  moonless  land  of  Bathrolaire 

Rises  at  night,  when  revelry  begins, 

A  white  unreal  orb,  a  sun  that  spins, 

A  sun  that  watches  with  a  sullen  stare 

That  dance  spasmodic  they  are  dancing  there, 

Whilst  drone  and  cry  and  drone  of  violins 

Hint  at  the  sweetness  of  forgotten  sins, 

Or  call  the  devotees  of  shame  to  prayer. 

And  all  the  spaces  of  the  midnight  town 

Ring  with  appeal  and  sorrowful  abuse. 

There  some  most  lonely  are  :  some  try  to  crown 

Mad  lovers  with  sad  boughs  of  formal  yews, 

And  Titan  women  wandering  up  and  down 

Lead  on  the  pale  fanatics  of  the  muse. 


37 


The  Second  Sonnet  of  Bathrolaire 


Now  the  sweet  Dawn  on  brighter  fields  afar 
Has  walked  among  the  daisies,  and  has  breathed 
The  glory  of  the  mountain  winds,  and  sheathed 
The  stubborn  sword  of  Night's  last-shining  star. 
In  Bathrolaire  when  Day's  old  doors  unbar 
The  motley  mask,  fantastically  wreathed, 
Pass  through  a  strong  portcullis  brazen  teethed, 
And  enter  glowing  mines  of  cinnabar. 
Stupendous  prisons  shut  them  out  from  day, 
Gratings  and  caves  and  rayless  catacombs, 
And  the  unrelenting  rack  and  tourniquet 
Grind  death  in  cells  where  jetting  gaslight  gloams, 
And  iron  ladders  stretching  far  away 
Dive  to  the  depths  of  those  eternal  domes. 


38 


The  Ballad  of  Hampstead  Heath 


From  Heaven's  Gate  to  Hampstead  Heath 

Young  Bacchus  and  his  crew 
Came  tumbling  down,  and  o'er  the  town 

Their  bursting  trumpets  blew. 


The  silver  night  was  wildly  bright, 
And  madly  shone  the  Moon 

To  hear  a  song  so  clear  and  strong, 
With  such  a  lovely  tune. 


From  London's  houses,  huts  and  flats, 
Came  busmen,  snobs,  and  Earls, 

And  ugly  men  in  bowler  hats 
With  charming  little  girls. 


Sir  Moses  came  with  eyes  of  flame, 

Judd,  who  is  like  a  bloater, 
The  brave  Lord  Mayor  in  coach  and  pair, 

King  Edward,  in  his  motor. 


39 


Far  in  a  rosy  mist  withdrawn 

The  God  and  all  his  crew, 
Silenus  pulled  by  nymphs,  a  faun, 

A  satyr  drenched  in  dew, 

Smiled  as  they  wept  those  shining  tears 

Only  Immortals  know, 
Whose  feet  are  set  among  the  stars, 

Above  the  shifting  snow. 

And  one  spake  out  into  the  night, 

Before  they  left  for  ever, 
"  Rejoice,  rejoice  !  "  and  his  great  voice 

Rolled  like  a  splendid  river. 

He  spake  in  Greek,  which  Britons  speak 

Seldom,  and  circumspectly ; 
But  Mr.  Judd,  that  man  of  mud, 

Translated  it  correctly. 

And  when  they  heard  that  happy  word, 

Policemen  leapt  and  ambled  : 
The  busmen  pranced,  the  maidens  danced, 

The  men  in  bowlers  gambolled. 

A  wistful  Echo  stayed  behind 

To  join  the  mortal  dances, 
But  Mr.  Judd,  with  words  unkind, 

Rejected  her  advances. 


40 


And  passing  down  through  London  Town 
She  stopped,  for  all  was  lonely, 

Attracted  by  a  big  brass  plate 

Inscribed,  FOR  MEMBERS  ONLY. 

And  so  she  went  to  Parliament, 

But  those  ungainly  men 
Woke  up  from  sleep,  and  turned  about, 

And  fell  asleep  again. 


41 


Litany  to  Satan 

{From  Baudelaire) 

O  grandest  of  the  Angels,  and  most  wise, 
O  fallen  God,  fate-driven  from  the  skies, 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

O  first  of  exiles  who  endurest  wrong, 

Yet  growest,  in  thy  hatred,  still  more  strong, 

Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain  ! 

O  subterranean  King,  omniscient, 
Healer  of  man's  immortal  discontent, 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

To  lepers  and  to  outcasts  thou  dost  show 
That  Passion  is  the  Paradise  below. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thou  by  thy  mistress  Death  hast  given  to  man 
Hope,  the  imperishable  courtesan. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

42 


Thou  givest  to  the  Guilty  their  calm  mien 
Which  damns  the  crowd  around  the  guillotine 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thou  knowest  the  corners  of  the  jealous  Earth 
Where  God  has  hidden  jewels  of  great  worth. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thou  dost  discover  by  mysterious  signs 
Where  sleep  the  buried  people  of  the  mines. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thou  stretchest  forth  a  saving  hand  to  keep 
Such  men  as  roam  upon  the  roofs  in  sleep. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thy  power  can  make  the  halting  Drunkard's  feet 
Avoid  the  peril  of  the  surging  street. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thou,  to  console  our  helplessness,  didst  plot 
The  cunning  use  of  powder  and  of  shot. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Thy  awful  name  is  written  as  with  pitch 
On  the  unrelenting  foreheads  of  the  rich. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 


43 


In  strange  and  hidden  places  thou  dost  move 
Where  women  cry  for  torture  in  their  love. 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 

Father  of  those  whom  God's  tempestuous  ire 
Has  flung  from  Paradise  with  sword  and  fire, 
Satan,  at  last  take  pity  on  our  pain. 


Prayer 

Satan,  to  thee  be  praise  upon  the  Height 
Where  thou  wast  king  of  old,  and  in  the  night 
Of  Hell,  where  thou  dost  dream  on  silently. 
Grant  that  one  day  beneath  the  Knowledge-tree, 
When  it  shoots  forth  to  grace  thy  royal  brow, 
My  soul  may  sit,  that  cries  upon  thee  now. 


44 


The  Translator  and  the  Children 


While  I  translated  Baudelaire, 

Children  were  playing  out  in  the  air. 

Turning  to  watch,  I  saw  the  light 

That  made  their  clothes  and  faces  bright. 

I  heard  the  tune  they  meant  to  sing 

As  they  kept  dancing  in  a  ring ; 

But  I  could  not  forget  my  book, 

And  thought  of  men  whose  faces  shook 

When  babies  passed  them  with  a  look. 


They  are  as  terrible  as  death, 
Those  children  in  the  road  beneath. 
Their  witless  chatter  is  more  dread 
Than  voices  in  a  madman's  head  : 
Their  dance  more  awful  and  inspired, 
Because  their  feet  are  never  tired, 
Than  silent  revel  with  soft  sound 
Of  pipes,  on  consecrated  ground, 
When  all  the  ghosts  go  round  and  round. 


45 


Destroyer  of  Ships ,  Men^  Cities 


Helen  of  Troy  has  sprung  from  Hell 
To  claim  her  ancient  throne, 

So  we  have  bidden  friends  farewell 
To  follow  her  alone. 


The  Lady  of  the  laurelled  brow, 
The  Queen  of  pride  and  power, 

Looks  rather  like  a  phantom  now, 
And  rather  like  a  flower. 


Deep  in  her  eyes  the  lamp  of  night 

Burns  with  a  secret  flame, 
Where  shadows  pass  that  have  no  sight, 

And  ghosts  that  have  no  name. 


For  mute  is  battle's  brazen  horn 
That  rang  for  Priest  and  King, 

And  she  who  drank  of  that  brave  morn 
Is  pale  with  evening. 


46 


An  hour  there  is  when  bright  words  flow, 

A  little  hour  for  sleep, 
An  hour  between,  when  lights  are  low, 

And  then  she  seems  to  weep. 


But  no  less  lovely  than  of  old 
She  shines,  and  almost  hears 

The  horns  that  blew  in  days  of  gold, 
The  shouting  charioteers. 


And  she  still  breaks  the  hearts  of  men, 
Their  hearts  and  all  their  pride, 

Doomed  to  be  cruel  once  again, 
And  live  dissatisfied. 


47 


Oxford  Canal 


When  you  have  wearied  of  the  valiant  spires  of  this 
County  Town, 

Of  its  wide  white  streets  and  glistening  museums,  and 
black  monastic  walls, 

Of  its  red  motors  and  lumbering  trams,  and  self-sufficient 
people, 

I  will  take  you  walking  with  me  to  a  place  you  have 
not  seen — 

Half  town  and  half  country — the  land  of  the  Canal. 

It  is  dearer  to  me  than  the  antique  town :  I  love  it 
more  than  the  rounded  hills  : 

Straightest,  sublimest  of  rivers  is  the  long  Canal. 

I  have  observed  great  storms  and  trembled :  I  have 
wept  for  fear  of  the  dark. 

But  nothing  makes  me  so  afraid  as  the  clear  water  of 
this  idle  canal  on  a  summer's  noon. 

Do  you  see  the  great  telephone  poles  down  in  the  water, 
how  every  wire  is  distinct  ? 

If  a  body  fell  into  the  canal  it  would  rest  entangled  in 
those  wires  for  ever,  between  earth  and  air. 

For  the  water  is  as  deep  as  the  stars  are  high. 

48 


One  day  I  was  thinking  how  if  a  man  fell  from  that 
lofty  pole 

He  would  rush  through  the  water  toward  me  till  his 
image  was  scattered  by  his  splash, 

When  suddenly  a  train  rushed  by :  the  brazen  dome  of 
the  engine  flashed  :   the  long  white  carriages  roared  ; 

The  sun  veiled  himself  for  a  moment,  and  the  signals 
loomed  in  fog ; 

A  savage  woman  screamed  at  me  from  a  barge  :  little 
children  began  to  cry ; 

The  untidy  landscape  rose  to  life  ;   a  sawmill  started ; 

A  cart  rattled  down  to  the  wharf,  and  workmen  clanged 
over  the  iron  footbridge ; 

A  beautiful  old  man  nodded  from  the  first  story  window 
of  a  square  red  house, 

And  a  pretty  girl  came  out  to  hang  up  clothes  in  a 
small  delightful  garden. 

O  strange  motion  in  the  suburb  of  a  county  town :  slow 
regular  movement  of  the  dance  of  death  ! 

Men  and  not  phantoms  are  these  that  move  in  light 

Forgotten  they  live,  and  forgotten  die. 


49 


Hia/mar  Speaks  to  the  Raven 

{From  Leconte  de  Lisle) 

Night  on  the  bloodstained  snow  :  the  wind  is  chill 
And  there  a  thousand  tombless  warriors  lie, 
Grasping  their  swords,  wild-featured.     All  are  still. 
Above  them  the  black  ravens  wheel  and  cry. 

A  brilliant  moon  sends  her  cold  light  abroad  : 
Hialmar  arises  from  the  reddened  slain, 
Heavily  leaning  on  his  broken  sword, 
And  bleeding  from  his  side  the  battle-rain. 

"  Hail  to  you  all :  is  there  one  breath  still  drawn 
Among  those  fierce  and  fearless  lads  who  played 
So  merrily,  and  sang  as  sweet  in  the  dawn 
As  thrushes  singing  in  the  bramble  shade  ? 

"  They  have  no  word  to  say  :  my  helm's  unbound, 
My  breastplate  by  the  axe  unriveted  : 
Blood's  on  my  eyes  ;  I  hear  a  spreading  sound, 
Like  waves  or  wolves  that  clamour  in  my  head. 

50 


"  Eater  of  men,  old  raven,  come  this  way, 
And  with  thine  iron  bill  open  my  breast, 
To-morrow  find  us  where  we  lie  to-day, 
And  bear  my  heart  to  her  that  I  love  best. 

"  Through  Upsala,  where  drink  the  Jarls  and  sing, 
And  clash  their  golden  bowls  in  company, 
Bird  of  the  moor,  carry  on  tireless  wing 
To  Ylmer's  daughter  there  the  heart  of  me. 

"  And  thou  shalt  see  her  standing  straight  and  pale, 
High  pedestalled  on  some  rook-haunted  tower  : 
She  has  two  ear-rings,  silver  and  vermeil, 
And  eyes  like  stars  that  shine  in  sunset  hour. 

"  Tell  her  my  love,  thou  dark  bird  ominous  ; 
Give  her  my  heart,  no  bloodless  heart  and  vile 
But  red  compact  and  strong,  O  raven.     Thus 
Shall  Ylmer's  daughter  greet  thee  with  a  smile. 

"  Now  let  my  life  from  twenty  deep  wounds  flow, 
And  wolves  may  drink  the  blood.    My  time  is  done. 
Young,  brave  and  spotless,  I  rejoice  to  go 
And  sit  where  all  the  Gods  are,  in  the  sun." 


51 


The  Ballad  of  the  Student  in  the 
South 


It  was  no  sooner  than  this  morn 
That  first  I  found  you  there, 

Deep  in  a  field  of  southern  corn 
The  colour  of  your  hair. 

I  had  read  books  you  had  not  read, 

Yet  I  was  put  to  shame 
To  hear  the  simple  words  you  said. 

And  see  your  eyes  aflame. 

Shall  I  forget  when  prying  dawn 

Sends  me  about  my  way, 
The  careless  stars,  the  quiet  lawn, 

And  you  with  whom  I  lay  ? 

Yours  is  the  beauty  of  the  moon, 

The  wisdom  of  the  sea, 
Since  first  you  tasted,  sweet  and  soon, 

Of  God's  forbidden  tree. 


52 


Darling,  a  scholar's  fancies  sink 

So  faint  beneath  your  song  ; 
And  you  are  right,  why  should  we  think, 

We  who  are  young  and  strong  ? 

For  we  are  simple,  you  and  I, 

We  do  what  others  do, 
Who  live  because  they  fear  to  die 

And  love  the  whole  night  through. 


S3 


The  Queen  s  Song 


Had  I  the  power 

To  Midas  given  of  old 
To  touch  a  flower 

And  leave  the  petals  gold 
I  then  might  touch  thy  face, 

Delightful  boy, 
And  leave  a  metal  grace, 

A  graven  joy. 

Thus  would  I  slay, — 

Ah,  desperate  device ! 
The  vital  day 

That  trembles  in  thine  eyes, 
And  let  the  red  lips  close 

Which  sang  so  well, 
And  drive  away  the  rose 

To  leave  a  shell. 

Then  I  myself, 

Rising  austere  and  dumb 
On  the  high  shelf 

Of  my  half-lighted  room. 


54 


Would  place  the  shining  bust 

And  wait  alone, 
Until  I  was  but  dust, 

Buried  unknown. 

Thus  in  my  love 

For  nations  yet  unborn, 
I  would  remove 

From  our  two  lives  the  morn, 
And  muse  on  loveliness 

In  mine  arm-chair, 
Content  should  Time  confess 

How  sweet  you  were. 


ss 


On  Turner  s  Polyphemus 


Painter  of  day,  let  my  dark  spirit  fly 
Past  the  Trinacrian  Sound,  to  gaze  upon 
The  deathless  horses  of  Hyperion 

Driven  up  fiery  stairs  tumultuously  : 

To  see  once  more  the  Achaian  prows  glide  by, 
Odysseus  in  his  burnished  galleon, 
Nereides  that  sing  him  swiftly  on, 

And  baffled  Cyclops  fading  in  the  sky. 


Master,  you  paint  the  passion  of  the  Earth, 
The  faint  victorious  music  of  her  birth, 

The  splendour  of  things  lost  and  things  grown  old  ; 
And  show  us  song  new-wrought  with  ardent  might 
Of  strong-winged  morning  and  of  sure  delight, 

Of  hyacinthine  mist,  and  shining  gold. 


56 


The  Bridge  of  Fire 


High  on  the  bridge  of  Heaven  whose  Eastern  bars 
Exclude  the  interchange  of  Night  and  Day, 
Robed  with  faint  seas  and  crowned  with  quiet  stars 
All  great  Gods  dwell  to  whom  men  prayed  or  pray. 
No  winter  chills,  no  fear  or  fever  mars 
Their  grand  and  timeless  hours  of  pomp  and  play  : 
Some  drive  about  the  Rim  wind-golden  cars 
Or,  shouting,  laugh  Eternity  away. 

The  daughters  of  their  pride, 

Moon-pale,  blue-water-eyed, 
Their  flame-white  bodies  pearled  with  falling  spray, 

Send  all  their  dark  hair  streaming 

Down  where  the  worlds  lie  gleaming, 
And  draw  their  mighty  lovers  close  and  say  : 
"  Come  over  by  the  Stream  :  one  hears 
The  speech  of  Nations  broken  in  the  chant  of  Spheres." 


57 


II 


Hear  now  the  song  of  those  bright  Shapes  that  shine 
Huge  as  Leviathans,  tasting  the  fare 
Delicate-sweet,  while  scented  dews  divine 
Thrill  from  the  ground  and  clasp  the  rosy  air, 
"  Sing  on,  sing  out,  and  reach  a  hand  for  wine, 
For  the  brown  small  Earth  is  softly  afloat  down  there, 
And  the  suns  burn  low,  and  the  sky  is  sapphirine, 
And  the  little  winds  of  space  are  in  our  hair — 

The  little  winds  of  space 

Blow  in  the  love-god's  face, 
The  only  god  who  lacks  not  praise  and  prayer  ; 

He  shall  preserve  his  powers 

Though  Ruin  shake  square  towers 
And  echoing  Temples  fall  without  repair, 
And  still  go  forth  as  strong  as  ten, 
A  red  immortal  riding  in  the  hearts  of  men  !  " 


III 


The  Gods  whose  faces  are  the  morning  light 
Of  they  who  love  the  leafy  rood  of  song, 
The  Gods  of  Greece,  dividing  the  broad  night, 
Have  gathered  on  the  Bridge,  of  all  that  throng 
The  fairest,  whether  he  whose  feet  for  flight 
Had  plumy  wings,  or  she  to  whom  belong 
Shadows,  Persephone,  or  that  swan-white 


58 


Rose-breasted  island  lady,  gentle  and  strong, 
Or  younger  gods  than  these 
That  peep  among  the  trees 
And  dance  when  Dionysus  beats  his  gong, 
Or  the  old  disastrous  gods 
That  nod  with  snaky  nods 
Brandishing  high  the  sharp  and  triple  thong, 
Or  whom  the  dull  profound  of  Hell 
Spits  forth,  the  reeling  Typhon  that  in  dark  must  dwell. 


IV 

Shadows  there  are  that  seem  to  look  for  home 
Each  spreading  like  a  gloom  across  the  plain, 
Voiced  like  a  great  bell  swinging  in  a  dome, 
Appealing  mightily  for  realms  to  reign. 
They  were  the  slow  and  shapeless  gods  of  Rome, 
Laborious  gods,  who  founded  power  on  pain, 
These  watched  the  peasant  turn  his  sullen  loam, 
These  drave  him  out  to  fight,  nor  drave  in  vain  : 

Saturnus  white  and  old 

Who  lost  the  age  of  gold, 
Mars  who  was  proud  to  stand  on  the  deep-piled  slain, 

Pomona  from  whose  womb 

Slow  fruits  in  season  come, 
And,  tower-crowned  mother  of  the  yellow  grain, 
Demeter,  and  the  avenging  dead, 
The  silent  Lemures,  in  fear  with  honey  fed. 


59 


Belus  and  Ra  and  that  most  jealous  Lord 
Who  rolled  the  hosts  of  Pharaoh  in  the  sea, 
Trolls  of  the  North,  in  every  hand  a  sword, 
Gnomes  and  dwarfs  and  the  shuddering  company, 
Gods  who  take  vegeance,  gods  who  grant  reward, 
Gods  who  exact  a  murdered  devotee, 
Brahma  the  kind,  and  Siva  the  abhorred 
And  they  who  tend  Ygdrasil,  the  big  tree, 

And  Isis,  the  young  moon, 

And  she  of  the  piping  tune, 
Her  Phrygian  sister,  cruel  Cybele, 

Orpheus  the  lone  harp-player 

And  Mithras  the  man-slayer, 
And  Allah  rumbling  on  to  victory, 
And  some,  the  oldest  of  them  all, 
Square  heads  that  leer  and  lust,  and  lizard  shapes  that 
crawl. 


VI 


Between  the  pedestals  of  Night  and  Morning, 
Between  red  death  and  radiant  desire 
With  not  one  sound  of  triumph  or  of  warning 
Stands  the  great  sentry  on  the  Bridge  of  Fire. 
O  transient  soul,  thy  thought  with  dreams  adorning, 
Cast  down  the  laurel,  and  unstring  the  lyre  : 


60 


The  wheels  of  Time  are  turning,  turning,  turning, 
The  slow  stream  channels  deep  and  doth  not  tire. 

Gods  on  their  Bridge  above 

Whispering  lies  and  love 
Shall  mock  your  passage  down  the  sunless  river 

Which,  rolling  all  it  streams, 

Shall  take  you,  king  of  dreams, 
— Unthroned  and  unapproachable  for  ever — 
To  where  the  kings  who  dreamed  of  old 
Whiten  in  habitations  monumental  cold 


61 


We  That  Were  Friends 


We  that  were  friends  to-night  have  found 
A  fear,  a  secret,  and  a  shame  : 

I  am  on  fire  with  that  soft  sound 
You  make,  in  uttering  my  name. 


Forgive  a  young  and  boastful  man 

Whom  dreams  delight  and  passions  please, 

And  love  me  as  great  women  can 
Who  have  no  children  at  their  knees. 


62 


My  Friend 


I  had  a  friend  who  battled  for  the  truth 
With  stubborn  heart  and  obstinate  despair, 
Till  all  his  beauty  left  him,  and  his  youth, 
And  there  were  few  to  love  him  anywhere. 


Then  would  he  wander  out  among  the  graves, 
And  think  of  dead  men  lying  in  a  row  ; 
Or,  standing  on  a  cliff,  observe  the  waves, 
And  hear  the  wistful  sound  of  winds  below  ; 


And  yet  they  told  him  nothing.     So  he  sought 
The  twittering  forest  at  the  break  of  day, 
Or  on  fantastic  mountains  shaped  a  thought 
As  lofty  and  impenitent  as  they. 


And  next  he  went  in  wonder  through  a  town 
Slowly  by  day  and  hurriedly  by  night, 
And  watched  men  walking  up  the  street  and  down 
With  timorous  and  terrible  delight. 

63 


Weary,  he  drew  man's  wisdom  from  a  book, 
And  pondered  on  the  high  words  spoken  of  old, 
Pacing  a  lamplit  room  :  but  soon  forsook 
The  golden  sentences  that  left  him  cold. 


After,  a  woman  found  him,  and  his  head 
Lay  on  her  breast,  till  he  forgot  his  pain 
In  gentle  kisses  on  a  midnight  bed, 
And  welcomed  royal-winged  joy  again. 


When  love  became  a  loathing,  as  it  must, 
He  knew  not  where  to  turn  ;  and  he  was  wise 
Being  now  old,  to  sink  among  the  dust, 
And  rest  his  rebel  heart,  and  close  his  eyes 


64 


Ideal 


When  all  my  gentle  friends  had  gone 

I  wandered  in  the  night  alone  : 

Beneath  the  green  electric  glare 

I  saw  men  pass  with  hearts  of  stone. 

Yet  still  I  heard  them  everywhere, 

Those  golden  voices  of  the  air  : 

"  Friend,  we  will  go  to  hell  with  thee, 

Thy  griefs,  thy  glories  we  will  share, 

And  rule  the  .earth,  and  bind  the  sea, 

And  set  ten  thousand  devils  free  ; — " 

"  What  dost  thou,  stranger,  at  my  side, 

Thou  gaunt  old  man  accosting  me  ? 

Away,  this  is  my  night  of  pride  ! 

On  lunar  seas  my  boat  will  glide 

And  I  shall  know  the  secret  things." 

The  old  man  answered  :   "  Woe  betide  !  " 

Said  I :  "  The  world  was  made  for  kings  : 

To  him  who  works  and  working  sings 

Come  joy  and  majesty  and  power 

And  steadfast  love  with  royal  wings." 

"  O  watch  these  fools  that  blink  and  cower," 

Said  that  wise  man  :  "  and  every  hour 


65 


A  score  is  born,  a  dozen  dies." 
Said  I :  "In  London  fades  the  flower  ; 
But  far  away  the  bright  blue  skies 
Shall  watch  my  solemn  walls  arise, 
And  all  the  glory,  all  the  grace 
Of  earth  shall  gather  there,  and  eyes 
Will  shine  like  stars  in  that  new  place." 
Said  he :  "  Indeed  of  ancient  race 
Thou  comest,  with  thy  hollow  scheme. 
But  sail,  O  architect  of  dream, 
To  lands  beyond  the  Ocean  stream. 
Where  are  the  islands  of  the  blest, 
And  where  Atlantis,  where  Theleme  ?  " 


66 


Mary  Magdalen 


O  eyes  that  strip  the  souls  of  men  ! 
There  came  to  me  the  Magdalen. 
Her  blue  robe  with  a  cord  was  bound, 
Her  hair  with  knotted  ivy  crowned. 
"  Arise,"  she  said,  "  God  calls  for  thee, 
Turned  to  new  paths  thy  feet  must  be. 
Leave  the  fever  and  the  feast, 
Leave  the  friend  thou  lovest  best : 
For  thou  must  walk  in  barefoot  ways, 
On  hills  where  God  is  near  to  praise." 


Then  answered  I — "  Sweet  Magdalen, 

God's  servant,  once  beloved  of  men, 

Why  didst  thou  change  old  ways  for  new, 

Thy  trailing  red  for  corded  blue, 

The  rose  for  ivy  on  thy  brow, 

That  splendour  for  this  barren  vow  ?  " 

Gentle  of  speech  she  answered  me  : — 

"  Sir,  I  was  sick  with  revelry. 

True,  I  have  scarred  the  night  with  sin, 

A  pale  and  tawdry  heroine  ; 


67 


Yet  once  I  heard  a  voice  that  said, 
*  Who  lives  in  sin  is  like  one  dead, 
But  follow  :  thy  dark  eyes  shall  see 
The  towns  of  immortality.'  " 


"  O  Mary,  not  for  this,"  I  cried, 

"  Didst  thou  renounce  thy  scented  pride. 

Not  for  the  roll  of  endless  years 

Or  fields  of  joy  undewed  by  tears 

Didst  thou  desert  the  courts  of  men. 

Tell  me  thy  truth,  grave  Magdalen  !  " 


She  trembled,  and  her  eyes  grew  dim  :- 
"  For  love  of  Him,  for  love  of  Him." 


68 


/  Rose  from  Dreamless  Hours 


I  rose  from  dreamless  hours  and  sought  the  morn 

That  beat  upon  my  window  :   from  the  sill 

I  watched  sweet  lands,  where  Autumn  light  newborn 

Swayed  through  the  trees  and  lingered  on  the  hill. 

If  things  so  lovely  are,  why  labour  still 

To  dream  of  something  more  than  this  I  see  ? 

Do  I  remember  tales  of  Galilee, 

I  who  have  slain  my  faith  and  freed  my  will  ? 

Let  me  forget  dead  faith,  dead  mystery, 

Dead  thoughts  of  things  I  cannot  comprehend. 

Enough  the  light  mysterious  in  the  tree, 

Enough  the  friendship  of  my  chosen  friend. 


69 


Prayer 


Let  me  not  know  how  sins  and  sorrows  glide 

Along  the  sombre  city  of  our  rage, 

Or  why  the  sons  of  men  are  heavy-eyed. 

Let  me  not  know,  except  from  printed  page, 
The  pain  of  bitter  love,  of  baffled  pride, 
Or  sickness  shadowing  with  a  long  presage. 

Let  me  not  know,  since  happy  some  have  died 

Quickly  in  youth  or  quietly  in  age, 

How  faint,  how  loud  the  bravest  hearts  have  cried. 


70 


The  Piper 


A  lad  went  piping  through  the  Earth, 

Gladly,  madly,  merrily, 
With  a  tune  for  death  and  a  tune  for  birth, 

And  a  tune  for  lover's  revelry. 

He  kissed  the  girls  that  sat  alone 
With  none  to  whisper,  none  to  woo  ; 

Fired  at  his  touch  their  faces  shone, 
And  beauty  drenched  them  as  the  dew. 

Old  men  who  heard  him  danced  again, 
And  shuffled  round  with  catching  breath, 

And  those  that  lay  on  beds  of  pain 

Went  dancing  through  the  gates  of  death. 

If  only  he  could  make  us  thrill 

Once  more  with  mirth  and  melody  ! 

I  listened,  but  the  street  was  still, 
And  no  one  played  for  you  and  me. 


1907 


71 


The  Masque  of  the  Magi 


Three  Kings  have  come  to  Bethlehem 
With  a  trailing  star  in  front  of  them. 


Mary 

What  would  you  in  this  little  place, 
You  three  bright  kings  ? 


Kings 

Mother,  we  tracked  the  trailing  star 
Which  brought  us  here  from  lands  afar, 
And  we  would  look  on  his  dear  face 
Round  whom  the  Seraphs  fold  their  wings. 


Mary 

But  who  are  you,  bright  kings  ? 
72 


Caspar 

Caspar  am  I :   the  rocky  North 

From  storm  and  silence  drave  me  forth 

Down  to  the  blue  and  tideless  sea. 
I  do  not  fear  the  tinkling  sword, 
For  I  am  a  great  battle-lord, 

And  love  the  horns  of  chivalry. 
And  I  have  brought  thee  splendid  gold, 
The  strong  man's  joy,  refined  and  cold. 

All  hail,  thou  Prince  of  Galilee  ! 

Balthazar 

I  am  Balthazar,  Lord  of  Ind, 
Where  blows  a  soft  and  scented  wind 

From  Taprobane  towards  Cathay. 
My  children,  who  are  tall  and  wise, 
Stand  by  a  tree  with  shutten  eyes 

And  seem  to  meditate  or  pray. 
And  these  red  drops  of  frankincense 
Betoken  man's  intelligence. 

Hail,  Lord  of  Wisdom,  Prince  of  Day  ! 

Melchior 

I  am  the  dark  man,  Melchior, 
And  I  shall  live  but  little  more 
Since  I  am  old  and  feebly  move. 


73 


My  kingdom  is  a  burnt-up  land 
Half  buried  by  the  drifting  sand, 

So  hot  Apollo  shines  above. 
What  could  I  bring  but  simple  myrrh 
White  blossom  of  the  cordial  fire  F 

Hail,  Prince  of  Souls,  and  Lord  of  Love ! 


Chorus  of  Angels 

0  Prince  of  souls  and  Lord  of  Love, 
O'er  thee  the  purple-breasted  dove 
Shall  watch  with  open  silver  wings, 

Thou  King  of  Kings. 
Suaviole  ojlos  Virginum, 
Apparuit  Rex  Gentium. 

"  Who  art  thou,  little  King  of  Kings  ? 
His  wondering  mother  sings. 


74 


To  a  Poet  a  Thousand  Years  Hence 


I  who  am  dead  a  thousand  years, 
And  wrote  this  sweet  archaic  song, 

Send  you  my  words  for  messengers 
The  way  I  shall  not  pass  along. 


I  care  not  if  you  bridge  the  seas, 
Or  ride  secure  the  cruel  sky, 

Or  build  consummate  palaces 
Of  metal  or  of  masonry. 


But  have  you  wine  and  music  still, 
And  statues  and  a  bright-eyed  love, 

And  foolish  thoughts  of  good  and  ill, 
And  prayers  to  them  who  sit  above  ? 


How  shall  we  conquer  ?     Like  a  wind 
That  falls  at  eve  our  fancies  blow, 

And  old  Mseonides  the  blind 

Said  it  three  thousand  years  ago. 


75 


O  friend  unseen,  unborn,  unknown, 
Student  of  our  sweet  English  tongue, 

Read  out  my  words  at  night,  alone  : 
I  was  a  poet,  I  was  young. 


Since  I  can  never  see  your  face, 
And  never  shake  you  by  the  hand, 

I  send  my  soul  through  time  and  space 
To  greet  you.     You  will  understand. 


76 


Heliodora 

{From  Meleager) 

Why  dost  thou  touch,  0  flower-fed  bee, 

Heliodora's  skin, 
When  open  buds  are  asking  thee 

To  make  thy  home  within  ?     ; 


What  parable  art  murmuring  ? — 
That  Eros  makes  man  whole, 

And  turns  the  poison  of  his  sting 
To  sweetness  in  the  soul  ? 


Is  this  your  message,  silly  bee  ? 

A  dreamer  takes  it  so. 
Then  home  again  !     Don't  trouble  me  ! 

I  knew  it  long  ago. 


1908   ? 


77 


Love,  the  Baby 

(From  Meleager) 

Let  him  be  sold,  I  say  !    Let  him  be  sold, 
Even  while  he  slumbers  at  his  mother's  breast. 
Why  should  I  tend  a  thing  so  bad  and  bold, 
A  snub-nosed  imp,  a  little  scratching  pest ! 
I  find  him  always  laughing  through  his  tears  : 
He  treats  his  mother  badly ;  won't  be  tamed, 
Has  baby  wings  behind  him  ;  pries  and  peers, 
Behaves  unruly,  chatters  unashamed, — 
A  shocking  monster  !     Sailor  men,  this  way  ! 
Who  wants  a  boy  to  carry  off  to  sea  ? 
Oh  dear,  he's  crying !     Come,  I'll  let  you  stay 
Close  to  the  heart  of  my  Zenophile. 


1908  ? 


78 


Ballad  of  the  Londoner 


Evening  falls  on  the  smoky  walls, 
And  the  railings  drip  with  rain, 

And  I  will  cross  the  old  river 
To  see  my  girl  again. 


The  great  and  solemn-gliding  tram, 
Love's  still-mysterious  car, 

Has  many  a  light  of  gold  and  white, 
And  a  single  dark  red  star. 


I  know  a  garden  in  a  street 
Which  no  one  ever  knew  ; 

I  know  a  rose  beyond  the  Thames, 
Where  flowers  are  pale  and  few. 


79 


Resurrection 

(By  Piero  degli  Franceschi,  at  Borgo) 

Sleep  holds  you,  sons  of  war  :  you  may  not  see 
(You  whose  charmed  heads  sink  heavy  in  your  hands) 
How  'twixt  the  budding  and  the  barren  tree 
With  glory  in  his  staring  eyes,  he  stands. 
There's  a  sharp  movement  in  this  shivering  morn 
That  blinds  your  senses  while  it  breaks  your  power  : 
The  Phoenix  grips  the  eagle  :  Christ  reborn 
Bears  high  the  standard.     Sleep  a  little  hour  : 
Sleep  :  it  were  best  ye  saw  not  those  bright  eyes 
Prepared  to  wreck  your  world  with  errant  flame, 
And  drive  strong  men  to  follow  mysteries, 
Voices,  and  winds,  and  things  that  have  no  name. 
Dare  you  leave  strength  half-proved,  duty  half-done  ? 
Awake  !     This  God  will  hunt  you  from  the  sun  ! 


Nov.  10,  1908 


80 


Duke  Lumen,  Triste  Numen,  Suave 
Lumen  Luminum 


The  town  whose  quiet  veins  are  dark  green  sea, 

The  town  whose  flowers  and  forests  are  bright  stone 

There  it  was  the  God  came  to  you  and  me 

In  the  signless  depth  of  summer.     All  alone 

We  lay,  and  half  in  dream 

Gazed  at  the  thin  salt  stream, 

And  heard  the  ripples  talking  lazily. 

No  verdurous  growth,  no  sudden  sharp  decline 

Of  buds  or  leaves  is  there  :   the  marble  towers 

Come  rain,  come  cold,  come  snow  or  gay  sunshine 

Blossom  eternally  with  graven  flowers  ; 

Yet  there  the  mild  God  came, 

In  silence,  shod  with  flame, 

Girdled  with  mystery  and  crowned  with  vine. 

We  lay  in  the  sun  and  listened,  and  we  heard 
Soft-treading  feet  and  whispers  in  the  air, 
And  thunder  far  away,  like  a  god's  word 
Of  dire  import,  and  saw  the  noonday  flare 


81 


And  tall  white  palaces 

Sway  all  with  dizziness  ; 

The  bells  pealed  faintly,  and  the  water  stirred 

And  Life  stood  still  a  moment,  mists  came  swinging 

Blindly  before  us  ;  suddenly  we  passed 

The  boundaries  of  joy  :  our  hearts  were  ringing 

True  to  the  trembling  world  :  we  stood  at  last 

Beyond  the  golden  gate, 

Masters  of  Time  and  Fate, 

And  knew  the  tune  that  Sun  and  Stars  were  singing. 

For  like  two  travellers  on  a  hill,  who  stay 

Viewing  the  smoke  that  dims  the  busy  plains, 

So,  far  away  (sweet  words  are  "  far  away  "  !  ) 

We  saw  our  life  :  and  all  its  crooked  lanes, 

Dim  cities  and  dark  walls 

Fell  as  a  world  that  falls 

And  left  us  radiant  in  the  Wind  of  Day. 

An  end,  an  end  !     Again  the  leaden  noon 

Glowed,  and  hot  Fever  opened  her  red  eyes, 

And  Misery  came  creeping  out,  and  soon 

We  felt  once  more  the  sorrow  of  the  Wise. 

Come,  friend  !     We  travel  on 

(That  one  brief  vision  gone) 

Bravely,  like  men  who  see  beyond  the  skies. 

Nov.  20,  1908 
82 


Joseph  and  Mary 


Joseph 

Mary,  art  thou  the  little  maid 

Who  plucked  me  flowers  in  Spring  ? 

I  know  thee  not :   I  feel  afraid  : 
Thou'rt  strange  this  evening. 


A  sweet  and  rustic  girl  I  won 

What  time  the  woods  were  green  ; 

No  woman  with  deep  eyes  that  shone, 
And  the  pale  brows  of  a  Queen. 


Mary  {inattentive  to  his  words) 

A  stranger  came  with  feet  of  flame 
And  told  me  this  strange  thing,— 

For  all  I  was  a  village  maid 
My  son  should  be  a  King. 


83 


Joseph 

A  King,  dear  wife.     Who  ever  knew 
Of  Kings  in  stables  born  ! 


Mary 

Do  you  hear,  in  the  dark  and  starlit  blue 
The  clarion  and  the  horn  ? 


Joseph 

Mary,  alas,  lest  grief  and  joy 
Have  sent  thy  wits  astray  ; 

But  let  me  look  on  this  my  boy, 
And  take  the  wraps  away. 


Mary 

Behold  the  lad. 

Joseph 

I  dare  not  gaze 
Light  streams  from  every  limb. 

84 


Mary 

The  winter  sun  has  stored  his  rays, 
And  passed  the  fire  to  him. 

Look  Eastward,  look  !  I  hear  a  sound. 
O  Joseph,  what  do  you  see  ? 


Joseph 

The  snow  lies  quiet  on  the  ground 
And  glistens  on  the  tree  ; 

The  sky  is  bright  with  a  star's  great  light, 

And  clearly  I  behold 
Three  Kings  descending  yonder  hill, 

Whose  crowns  are  crowns  of  gold. 

O  Mary,  what  do  you  hear  and  see 
With  your  brow  toward  the  West  ? 


Mary 

The  snow  lies  glistening  on  the  tree 
And  silent  on  Earth's  breast ; 


85 


And  strong  and  tall,  with  lifted  eyes 
Seven  shepherds  walk  this  way, 

And  angels  breaking  from  the  skies 
Dance,  and  sing  hymns,  and  pray. 


Joseph 

I  wonder  much  at  these  bright  Kings ; 
The  shepherds  I  despise. 


Mary 

You  know  not  what  a  shepherd  sings, 
Nor  see  his  shining  eyes. 


86 


The  Lover  of  Jalalu  ddin 


My  darling  wandered  through  the  house, 

His  bow  upon  the  rebeck,  light  as  flame. 

Soft  melodies  he  played,  astray  with  sweet  carouse, 

Mad  songs  without  a  name. 

Then,  changing  to  a  solemn  mode  and  measure, 

"  Cupbearer,  wine  !  "  he  cried, 

"  Wine  for  the  sons  of  pleasure, 

The  children  of  desire  !  " 

Forth  from  his  corner  came 

The  moonbright  boy,  and  set  the  brimming  bowl 

Before  us,  with  sweet  reverence  and  grace. 


My  darling  took  the  cup  :  over  his  face 

Flowed  truant  flames.     "  Ye  evil  ghosts,"  he  cried, 

"  I  know  my  beauty  :  who  is  like  to  me  ? 

The  sun  of  all  the  world,  the  Lover's  pride, 

I  am,  I  was,  shall  be 

With  soul  and  spirit  moving  at  my  side." 

Dec.  1908 
87 


Donde  Estan  ? 

(Fragment) 

I 

We  are  they  who  dream  no  dreams, 

Singers  of  arising  day 

Who  undaunted, 

Where  the  sword  of  reason  gleams, 

Follow  hard,  to  hew  away 

The  woods  enchanted. 

Through  each  dark  and  rustling  byway 

Evil  things  have  fled  before  us  : 

We  pursue  them : 

We  have  carved  an  open  highway, 

We  have  sung  of  Truth  in  chorus 

As  we  slew  them. 


II 


Though  the  shapes  had  something  human, 
Though  sweet  lips  and  eyes  entreated 
By  their  beauty : 


88 


Though  processions  of  tall  women 

Looked  and  lured,  we  undefeated 

Did  our  duty. 

Though  fair  children,  running  after, 

Held  out  hands  of  supplication, 

Smiled  and  cried, 

Yet  we  watched  with  bitter  laughter 

When  delusion's  fair  creation 

Smitten,  died. 


Ill 

Where  are  they,  the  half-deceivers 

Statue-forms  and  young  men's  fancies, 

Gods  of  Greece  ? 

Dryads,  where  your  groves  and  rivers, 

Where  thy  chaste  and  woodland  dances, 

Artemis  ? 

Shadows,  shadows  !     None  will  follow 

Cyprian  maids  ;   or  voices  sighing 

From  the  sea  ; 

Veiled  is  Iris,  dark  Apollo, 

Dead  the  Queen  who  called  the  dying 

Hecate. 


89 


Where  are  they  who  crushed  the  East 

With  ribaldry  and  song,  and  where 

The  lewd  viziers  ? 

Where  the  girls  who  crowned  the  feast 

For  the  Lords  who  had  no  care 

Of  blood  or  tears  ? 

Where  the  millions  who,  forgotten, 

Fought  for  Selim's  sultanate 

And  filled  Gehenna  ? 

Where  the  sword  ? — but  dim  and  rotten 

Lies  the  sword  that  cleft  the  gate 

Of  proud  Vienna. 


Feb.  or  Mar.  1909 


90 


The  Town  without  a  Market 


There  lies  afar  behind  a  western  hill 

The  Town  without  a  Market,  white  and  still ; 

For  six  feet  long  and  not  a  third  as  high 

Are  those  small  habitations.     There  stood  I, 

Waiting  to  hear  the  citizens  beneath 

Murmur  and  sigh  and  speak  through  tongueless  teeth. 

When  all  the  world  lay  burning  in  the  sun 

I  heard  their  voices  speak  to  me.     Said  one  : 

"  Bright  lights  I  loved  and  colours,  I  who  find 

That  death  is  darkness,  and  has  struck  me  blind." 

Another  cried  :  "  I  used  to  sing  and  play, 

But  here  the  world  is  silent,  day  by  day." 

And  one  :  "  On  earth  I  could  not  see  or  hear, 

But  with  my  fingers  touched  what  I  was  near, 

And  knew  things  round  and  soft,  and  brass  from  gold, 

And  dipped  my  hand  in  water,  to  feel  cold, 

And  thought  the  grave  would  cure  me,  and  was  glad 

When  the  time  came  to  lose  what  joy  I  had." 

Soon  all  the  voices  of  a  hundred  dead 

Shouted  in  wrath  together.     Some  one  said, 

"  I  care  not,  but  the  girl  was  sweet  to  kiss 

At  evening  in  the  meadows."     "  Hard  it  is," 


91 


Another  cried,  "  to  hear  no  hunting  horn. 

Ah  me  !  the  horse,  the  hounds,  and  the  great  grey  morn 

When  I  rode  out  a-hunting."    And  one  sighed, 

"  I  did  not  see  my  son  before  I  died." 

A  boy  said,  "  I  was  strong  and  swift  to  run  : 

Now  they  have  tied  my  feet :  what  have  I  done  ?  " 

A  man,  "  But  it  was  good  to  arm  and  fight 

And  storm  their  cities  in  the  dead  of  night." 

An  old  man  said,  "  I  read  my  books  all  day, 

But  death  has  taken  all  my  books  away." 

And  one,  "  The  popes  and  prophets  did  not  well 

To  cheat  poor  dead  men  with  false  hopes  of  hell. 

Better  the  whips  of  fire  that  hiss  and  rend 

Than  painless  void  proceeding  to  no  end." 

I  smiled  to  hear  them  restless,  I  who  sought 

Peace.     For  I  had  not  loved,  I  had  not  fought, 

And  books  are  vanities,  and  manly  strength 

A  gathered  flower.     God  grant  us  peace  at  length  ! 

I  heard  no  more,  and  turned  to  leave  their  town 

Before  the  chill  came,  and  the  sun  went  down. 

Then  rose  a  whisper,  and  I  seemed  to  know 

A  timorous  man,  buried  long  years  ago. 

"  On  Earth  I  used  to  shape  the  Thing  that  seems. 

Master  of  all  men,  give  me  back  my  dreams. 

Give  me  that  world  that  never  failed  me  then, 

The  hills  I  made  and  peopled  with  tall  men, 

The  palace  that  I  built  and  called  my  home, 

My  cities  which  could  break  the  pride  of  Rome, 

The  three  queens  hidden  in  the  sacred  tree, 

And  those  white  cloudy  folk  who  sang  to  me. 


92 


0  death,  why  hast  thou  covered  me  so  deep  ? 

1  was  thy  sister's  child,  the  friend  of  Sleep." 


Then  said  my  heart,  Death  takes  and  cannot  give. 
Dark  with  no  dream  is  hateful :  let  me  live  ! 


93 


A  Western  Voyage 


My  friend  the  Sun — like  all  my  friends 
Inconstant,  lovely,  far  away — 

Is  out,  and  bright,  and  condescends 
To  glory  in  our  holiday. 


A  furious  march  with  him  I'll  go 
And  race  him  in  the  Western  train, 

And  wake  the  hills  I  used  to  know 
And  swim  the  Devon  sea  again. 


I  have  done  foolishly  to  tread 
The  footway  of  the  false  moonbeams, 

To  light  my  lamp  and  call  the  dead 
And  read  their  long  black  printed  dreams. 


I  have  done  foolishly  to  dwell 
With  Fear  upon  her  desert  isle, 

To  take  my  shadowgraph  to  Hell, 
And  then  to  hope  the  shades  would  smile. 


94 


And  since  the  light  must  fail  me  soon 
(But  faster,  faster,  Western  train  !) 

Proud  meadows  of  the  afternoon, 
I  have  remembered  you  again. 


And  I'll  go  seek  through  moor  and  dale 
A  flower  that  wastrel  winds  caress  ; 

The  bud  is  red  and  the  leaves  pale, 
The  name  of  it  Forgetfulness. 


Then  like  the  old  and  happy  hills 
With  frozen  veins  and  fires  outrun, 

I'll  wait  the  day  when  darkness  kills 
My  brother  and  good  friend,  the  Sun. 


95 


Invitation 


TO    A   YOUNG    BUT    LEARNED    FRIEND    TO    ABANDON 

ARCHEOLOGY    FOR   THE    MOMENT,    AND    PLAY    ONCE 

MORE    WITH    HIS  NEGLECTED  MUSE 

In  those  good  days  when  we  were  young  and  wise, 
You  spake  to  music,  you  with  the  thoughtful  eyes, 
And  God  looked  down  from  heaven,  pleased  to  hear 
A  young  man's  song  arise  so  firm  and  clear. 
Has  Fancy  died  ?     The  Morning  Star  gone  cold  ? 
Why  are  you  silent  ?     Have  we  grown  so  old  ? 
Who  sings  upon  Parnassus  ?     He  is  dead, 
The  God  to  whom  be  prayers,  not  praises,  said, 
The  sea-born,  the  Ionian.     There  is  one — 
But  he  dreams  deeper  than  the  oaks  of  Clun. 
(May  summer  keep  his  maids  and  meadows  glad  : 
They  hear  no  more  the  pipe  of  the  Shropshire  Lad  !) 
And  our  Tyrtaeus  ?     Strange  that  such  a  name 
Already  fades  upon  the  mist  of  fame 
With  the  smoke  of  Eastern  armies.     But  the  third 
Still  knows  the  dreadful  meaning  of  a  word. 
His  gown  is  black  and  crimson  :   mystery 
Veils  all  his  speech,  so  wonderful  is  he. 

96 


These  three  remain,  and  voiceless  you,  and  I. 
— Come,  the  sweet  radiance  of  our  Spring  is  nigh. 
Must  I  alone  keep  playing  ?     Will  not  you, 
Lord  of  the  Measures,  string  your  lyre  anew  ? 
Lover  of  Greece,  is  this  the  richest  store 
You  bring  us, — withered  leaves  and  dusty  lore, 
And  broken  vases  widowed  of  their  wine, 
To  brand  you  pedant  while  you  stand  divine  ? 
Decorous  words  beseem  the  learned  lip, 
But  Poets  have  the  nicer  scholarship. 
In  English  glades  they  watch  the  Cyprian  glow 
And  all  the  Maenad  melodies  they  know. 
They  hear  strange  voices  in  a  London  street, 
And  track  the  silver  gleam  of  rushing  feet ; 
And  these  are  things  that  come  not  to  the  view 
Of  slippered  dons  who  read  a  codex  through. 

O  honeyed  Poet,  will  you  praise  no  more 
The  moonlit  garden  and  the  midnight  shore  ? 
Brother,  have  you  forgotten  how  to  sing 
The  story  of  that  weak  and  cautious  king 
Who  reigned  two  hundred  years  in  Trebizond  ? 
You  who  would  ever  strive  to  pierce  beyond 
Love's  ecstasy,  Life's  vision,  is  it  well 
We  should  not  know  the  tales  you  have  to  tell  ? 


97 


War  Song  of  the  Saracens 


We  are  they  who  come  faster  than  fate  :  we  are  they  who 

ride  early  or  late  : 
We  storm  at  your  ivory  gate :    Pale  Kings  of  the  Sunset, 

beware ! 
Not  on  silk  nor  in  samet  we  lie,  not  in  curtained  solemnity 

die 
Among  women  who  chatter  and  cry,  and  children  who 

mumble  a  prayer. 
But  we  sleep  by  the  ropes  of  the  camp,  and  we  rise  with  a 

shout,  and  we  tramp 
With  the  sun  or  the  moon  for  a  lamp,  and  the  spray  of  the 

wind  in  our  hair. 


From  the  lands,  where  the  elephants  are,  to  the  forts  of 

Merou  and  Balghar, 
Our  steel  we  have  brought  and  our  star  to  shine  on  the 

ruins  of  Rum. 
We  have  marched  from  the  Indus  to  Spain,  and  by  God 

we  will  go  there  again  ; 
We  have  stood  on  the  shore  of  the  plain  where  the  Waters 

of  Destiny  boom. 

98 


A  mart  of  destruction  we  made  at  Jalula  where  men  were 

afraid, 
For  death  was  a  difficult  trade,  and  the  sword  was  a  broker 

of  doom ; 

And  the  Spear  was  a  Desert  Physician  who  cured  not  a  few 

of  ambition, 
And  drave  not  a  few  to  perdition  with  medicine  bitter  and 

strong : 
And  the  shield  was  a  grief  to  the  fool  and  as  bright  as  a 

desolate  pool, 
And    as    straight    as    the    rock    of    Stamboul  when    their 

cavalry  thundered  along : 
For  the  coward  was  drowned  with  the  brave  when  our 

battle  sheered  up  like  a  wave, 
And  the  dead  to  the  desert  we  gave,  and  the  glory  to  God 

in  our  song. 


99 


The  Ballad  of  Camden  Town 


I  walked  with  Maisie  long  years  back 
The  streets  of  Camden  Town, 

I  splendid  in  my  suit  of  black, 
And  she  divine  in  brown. 


Hers  was  a  proud  and  noble  face, 
A  secret  heart,  and  eyes 

Like  water  in  a  lonely  place 
Beneath  unclouded  skies. 


A  bed,  a  chest,  a  faded  mat, 
And  broken  chairs  a  few, 

Were  all  we  had  to  grace  our  flat 
In  Hazel  Avenue. 


But  I  could  walk  to  Hampstead  Heath, 
And  crown  her  head  with  daisies, 

And  watch  the  streaming  world  beneath, 
And  men  with  other  Maisies. 

ioo 


When  I  was  ill  and  she  was  pale 
And  empty  stood  our  store, 

She  left  the  latchkey  on  its  nail, 
And  saw  me  nevermore. 

Perhaps  she  cast  herself  away 
Lest  both  of  us  should  drown : 

Perhaps  she  feared  to  die,  as  they 
Who  die  in  Camden  Town. 

What  came  of  her  ?     The  bitter  nights 

Destroy  the  rose  and  lily, 
And  souls  are  lost  among  the  lights 

Of  painted  Piccadilly. 

What  came  of  her  ?     The  river  flows 
So  deep  and  wide  and  stilly, 

And  waits  to  catch  the  fallen  rose 
And  clasp  the  broken  lily. 

I  dream  she  dwells  in  London  still 
And  breathes  the  evening  air, 

And  often  walk  to  Primrose  Hill, 
And  hope  to  meet  her  there. 

Once  more  together  we  will  live, 

For  I  will  find  her  yet  : 
I  have  so  little  to  forgive ; 

So  much,  I  can't  forget. 

101 


Gravis  Dulcis  Immutabilis 


Come,  let  me  kiss  your  wistful  face 
Where  Sorrow  curves  her  bow  of  pain, 
And  live  sweet  days  and  bitter  days 
With  you,  or  wanting  you  again. 


I  dread  your  perishable  gold  : 
Come  near  me  now  ;  the  years  are  few. 
Alas,  when  you  and  I  are  old 
I  shall  not  want  to  look  at  you  : 


And  yet  come  in.     I  shall  not  dare 
To  gaze  upon  your  countenance, 
But  I  shall  huddle  in  my  chair, 
Turn  to  the  fire  my  fireless  glance, 


And  listen,  while  that  slow  and  grave 
Immutable  sweet  voice  of  yours 
Rises  and  falls,  as  falls  a  wave 
In  summer  on  forsaken  shores. 

1 02 


Fountains 


Soft  is  the  collied  night,  and  cool 
The  wind  about  the  garden  pool. 
Here  will  I  dip  my  burning  hand 
And  move  an  inch  of  drowsy  sand, 
And  pray  the  dark  reflected  skies 
To  fasten  with  their  seal  mine  eyes. 
A  million  million  leagues  away 
Among  the  stars  the  goldfish  play, 
And  high  above  the  shadowed  stars 
Wave  and  float  the  nenuphars. 


103 


Di 


trge 


If  there  be  any  grief 
For  those  lost  eremites 
Who  live  where  no  man  roams, 
It  is  on  Autumn  nights 
At  falling  of  the  leaf, 
It  is  when  pale  October, 
Relentless  tree-disrober, 
Conceals  the  smokeless  homes. 

Autumn  is  not  so  chill 
Nor  leaves  so  light  in  air, 
Nor  any  wind  as  dim 
Blowing  from  any  where, 
Nor  fallen  snow  as  still 
As  the  boy  who  loved  to  wander 
Singing  till  the  forest  yonder 
Shouted  in  response  to  him. 

My  love  has  come  to  this — 
And  what  of  this  to  me  ? 
His  eyes  are  eaten  now, 
My  eyes  he  cannot  see  ; 

104 


Those  gentle  hands  of  his 
Are  taken  by  a  stronger, 
There  is  a  hand  no  longer 
To  lay  upon  my  brow. 

Autumn  has  killed  the  rose  ; 
O  mock  him  not  with  flowers 
For  they  are  troublesome  : 
Take  him  to  pass  the  hours 
Where  the  grey  nettle  grows. 
Scantly  his  couch  adorning 
Let  him  who  praised  the  morning 
Lie  here,  till  morning  come. 


1909.  Based  on  a  'poem 
published  in  1907  as  "  The 
Young  Poet " 


105 


The  Parrot 


The  old  professor  of  Zoology 

Shook  his  long  beard  and  spake  these  words  to  me 

"  Compare  the  Parrot  with  the  Dove.     They  are 

In  shape  the  same  :  in  hue  dissimilar. 

The  Indian  bird,  which  may  be  sometimes  seen 

In  red  or  black,  is  generally  green. 

His  beak  is  very  hard  :  it  has  been  known 

To  crack  thick  nuts  and  penetrate  a  stone. 

Alas  that  when  you  teach  him  how  to  speak 

You  find  his  head  is  harder  than  his  beak. 

The  passionless  Malay  can  safely  drub 

The  pates  of  parrots  with  an  iron  club  : 

The  ingenious  fowls,  like  boys  they  beat  at  school, 

Soon  learn  to  recognize  a  Despot's  rule. 

Now  if  you'd  train  a  parrot,  catch  him  young 
While  soft  the  mouth  and  tractable  the  tongue. 
Old  birds  are  fools  :  they  dodder  in  their  speech, 
More  eager  to  forget  than  you  to  teach ; 
They  swear  one  curse,  then  gaze  at  you  askance, 
And  all  oblivion  thickens  in  their  glance. 

Thrice  blest  whose  parrot  of  his  own  accord 
Invents  new  phrases  to  delight  his  Lord, 
106 


Who  spurns  the  dull  quotidian  task  and  tries 
Selected  words  that  prove  him  good  and  wise. 
Ah,  once  it  was  my  privilege  to  know 
A  bird  like  this  .  .  . 

But  that  was  long  ago  !  " 


July  1909 


107 


Lord  Arnaldos 

£  Quien  hubiese  tal  ventura  ? 

The  strangest  of  adventures, 
That  happen  by  the  sea, 
Befell  to  Lord  Arnaldos 
On  the  Evening  of  St.  John  ; 
For  he  was  out  a-hunting — 
A  huntsman  bold  was  he  ! — 
When  he  beheld  a  little  ship 
And  close  to  land  was  she. 
Her  cords  were  all  of  silver, 
Her  sails  of  cramasy  ; 
And  he  who  sailed  the  little  ship 
Was  singing  at  the  helm  : 
The  waves  stood  still  to  hear  him, 
The  wind  was  soft  and  low  ; 
The  fish  who  dwell  in  darkness 
Ascended  through  the  sea, 
And  all  the  birds  in  heaven 
Flew  down  to  his  mast-tree. 
Then  spake  the  Lord  Arnaldos, 
(Well  shall  you  hear  his  words  !) 

108 


"  Tell  me  for  God's  sake,  sailor, 
What  song  may  that  song  be  ? ': 
The  sailor  spake  in  answer, 
And  answer  thus  made  he  : 
"  I  only  tell  my  song  to  those 
Who  sail  away  with  me." 


109 


A  Miracle  of  Bethlehem 

Scene  :  A  street  of  that  village 
Three  men  with  ropes,  accosted  by  a  stranger 

The  Stranger 

I  pray  you,  tell  me  where  you  go 
With  heads  averted  from  the  skies, 
And  long  ropes  trailing  in  the  snow, 
And  resolution  in  your  eyes. 

The  First  Man 

I  am  a  lover  sick  of  love, 
For  scorn  rewards  my  constancy ; 
And  now  I  hate  the  stars  above, 
Because  my  dear  will  naught  of  me. 

no 


The  Second  Man 

I  am  a  beggar  man,  and  play 
Songs  with  a  splendid  swing  in  them, 
But  I  have  seen  no  food  to-day. 
They  want  no  song  in  Bethlehem. 


The  Third  Man 

I  am  an  old  man,  Sir,  and  blind, 
A  child  of  darkness  since  my  birth. 
I  cannot  even  call  to  mind 
The  beauty  of  the  scheme  of  earth. 

Therefore  I  sought  to  understand 
A  secret  hid  from  mortal  eyes, 
So  in  a  far  and  fragrant  land 
I  talked  with  men  accounted  wise, 

And  I  implored  the  Indian  priest 
For  wisdom  from  his  holy  snake, 
Yet  am  no  wiser  in  the  least, 
And  have  not  seen  the  darkness  break. 


Stranger 

And  whither  go  ye  now,  unhappy  three  ? 

ill 


The  Three  Men  with  Ropes 

Sir,  in  our  strange  and  special  misery 
We  met  this  night,  and  swore  in  bitter  pride 
To  sing  one  song  together,  friend  with  friend, 
And  then,  proceeding  to  the  country  side, 
To  bind  this  cordage  to  a  barren  tree, 
And  face  to  face  to  give  our  lives  an  end, 
And  only  thus  shall  we  be  satisfied. 

(They  make  to  continue  their  road) 


The  Stranger 

Stay  for  a  moment.     Great  is  your  despair, 
But  God  is  kind.    What  voice  from  over  there  ? 


A  Woman  (from  a  lattice) 
My  lover,  0  my  lover,  come  to  me  ! 

First  Man 

God  with  you.     (He  runs  to  the  window) 

112 


Stranger 
Ah,  how  swiftly  gone  is  he ! 

Many  Voices  (heard  singing  in  a  cottage) 

There  is  a  softness  in  the  night 

A  wonder  in  that  splendid  star 

That  fills  us  with  delight, 

Poor  foolish  working  people  that  we  are, 

And  only  fit  to  keep 

A  little  garden  or  a  dozen  sheep. 

Old  broken  women  at  the  fire 

Have  many  ancient  tales  they  sing, 

How  the  whole  world's  desire 

Should  blossom  here,  and  how  a  child  should  bring 

New  glory  to  his  race 

Though  born  in  so  contemptible  a  place. 

Let  all  come  in,  if  any  brother  go 

In  shame  or  hunger,  cold  or  fear, 

Through  all  this  waste  of  snow. 

To-night  the  Star,  the  Rose,  the  Song  are  near, 

And  still  inside  the  door 

Is  full  provision  for  another  score. 

(The  Beggar  runs  to  them) 

113  H 


The  Stranger  {to  the  Blind  Man) 
Do  you  not  mean  to  share  these  joys  ? 

The  Blind  Man 

Aweary  of  this  earthly  noise 

I  pace  my  silent  way. 

Come  you  and  help  me  tie  this  rope  : 

I  would  not  lose  my  only  hope. 

Already  clear  the  birds  I  hear, 

Already  breaks  the  day. 

Stranger 

O  foolish  and  most  blind  old  man, 
Where  are  those  other  two  ? 

The  Blind  Man 

Why,  one  is  wed  and  t'other  fed  : 
Small  thanks  they  gave  to  you. 

Stranger 

To  me  no  thanks  are  due. 

Yet  since  I  have  some  little  power 

114 


Bequeathed  me  at  this  holy  hour, 

I  tell  you,  friend,  that  God  shall  grant 

This  night  to  you  your  dearest  want. 


The  Blind  Man 

Why  this  sweet  odour  ?     Why  this  flame  ? 
I  am  afraid.     What  is  your  name  ? 


The  Stranger 

Ask  your  desire,  for  this  great  night 
Is  passing. 


The  Blind  Man 
Sir,  I  ask  my  sight. 

The  Stranger 

To  see  this  earth  ?     Or  would  you  see 
That  hidden  world  which  sent  you  me  ? 

"5 


The  Blind  Man 

O  sweet  it  were  but  once  before  I  die 

To  track  the  bird  about  the  windy  sky, 

Or  watch  the  soft  and  changing  grace 

Imprinted  on  a  human  face. 

Yet  grant  me  that  which  most  I  struggled  for, 

Since  I  am  old,  and  snow  is  on  the  ground. 

On  earth  there's  little  to  be  found, 

And  I  would  bear  with  earth  no  more. 

O  gentle  youth, 

A  fool  am  I,  but  let  me  see  the  Truth  ! 


The  Stranger 
Gaze  in  my  eyes. 

The  Blind  Man 

How  can  I  gaze  ? 
What  song  is  that,  and  what  these  rays 
Of  splendour  and  this  rush  of  wings  ? 

The  Stranger 
These  are  the  new  celestial  things. 
116 


The  Blind  Man 

Round  the  body  of  a  child 
A  great  dark  flame  runs  wild. 
What  may  this  be  ? 


The  Stranger 
Look  further,  you  shall  see. 

The  Blind  Man 

Out  on  the  sea  of  time  and  far  away 

The  Empires  sail  like  ships,  and  many  years 

Scatter  before  them  in  a  mist  of  spray  : 

And  mountains  rise  like  spears 

Silver  and  sharp  against  the  scarlet  day. 

The  Stranger 
It  is  most  sure  that  God  has  heard  his  prayer. 
(The  Stranger  vanishes) 
117 


The  Beggar 

{Leading  a  troop  of  revellers  from  the  house  where 
they  were  singing) 

Come,  brothers,  seek  my  friend  and  bring  him  in. 
On  such  a  night  as  this  it  were  a  sin 
To  leave  the  blind  alone. 


The  Revellers 

Greatly  we  fear  lest  he,  still  resolute, 

Have  wandered  to  the  fields  for  poisoned  fruit. 


The  Beggar 

See  here  upon  this  stone  .  .  . 

He  is  all  frozen  .  .  .  take  him  to  a  bed 

And  warm  his  hands. 


The  Revellers 

O  sorrow,  he  is  dead  ! 


118 


Felo-de-se 


The  song  of  a  man  who  was  dead 
Ere  any  had  heard  of  his  song, 
Or  had  seen  this  his  ultimate  song, 
With  the  lines  of  it  written  in  red, 
And  the  sound  of  it  steady  and  strong. 
When  you  hear  it,  you  know  I  am  dead. 


Not  because  I  was  weary  of  life 

As  pallid  poets  are  : 

My  star  was  a  conquering  star, 

My  element  strife. 

I  am  young,  I  am  strong,  I  am  brave, 

It  is  therefore  I  go  to  the  grave. 


Now  to  life  and  to  life's  desire, 
And  to  youth  and  the  glory  of  youth, 
Farewell,  for  I  go  to  acquire, 
By  the  one  road  left  me,  Truth. 
Though  a  great  God  slay  me  with  fire 
I  will  shout  till  he  answer  me.     Why  ? 

119 


(One  soul  and  a  Universe,  why  ?) 
And  for  this  it  is  pleasant  to  die. 

For  years  and  years  I  have  slumbered, 

And  slumber  was  heavy  and  sweet, 

But  the  last  few  moments  are  numbered, 

Like  trampling  feet  that  beat. 

I  shall  walk  with  the  stars  in  their  courses, 

And  hear  very  soon,  very  soon, 

The  voice  of  the  forge  of  the  Forces, 

And  ride  on  the  ridge  of  the  moon, 

And  sing  a  celestial  tune. 


120 


The  Welsh  Sea 


Far  out  across  Carnarvon  bay, 
Beneath  the  evening  waves, 

The  ancient  dead  begin  their  day 
And  stream  among  the  graves. 


Listen,  for  they  of  ghostly  speech, 
Who  died  when  Christ  was  born, 

May  dance  upon  the  yellow  beach 
That  once  was  yellow  corn. 


And  you  may  learn  of  Dyfed's  reign, 

And  dream  Nemedian  tales 
Of  Kings  who  sailed  in  ships  from  Spain 

And  lent  their  swords  to  Wales. 


Listen,  for  like  a  slow,  green  snake 
The  Ocean  twists  and  stirs, 

And  whispers  how  the  dead  men  wake 
And  call  across  the  years. 

121 


In  Memoriam 


I  never  shall  forget  that  night — 

Mid-April,  four  years  gone  : 
Nor  how  your  eyes  were  bright,  too  bright, 

And  how  the  pavement  shone. 

Death  on  you  now,  death  on  your  brow, 

Death  on  your  eyes  so  fair, 
Death  with  his  thin  shadow  hands 

Combing  out  your  hair. 

O  eyes  long  shut  and  lip  to  lip 

Fastened  no  more  to  sing  : 
Old  winter  turned  you  in  his  grip 

And  icy  blew  your  spring. 

Old  winter  had  you  by  the  throat 

You  could  not  speak  to  me 
Save  in  a  low  and  whispered  note 

As  through  a  shell  the  sea. 

Death  on  you  now,  death  on  your  brow, 

Death  on  your  eyes  so  fair, 
Death  with  his  thin  shadow  hands 

Combing  out  your  hair. 

1910 
122 


Opportunity 

(From  Machiavelli) 

"  But  who  art  thou,  with  curious  beauty  graced, 
O  woman,  stamped  with  some  bright  heavenly  seal  ? 
Why  go  thy  feet  on  wings,  and  in  such  haste  ?  " 

"  I  am  that  maid  whose  secret  few  may  steal, 
Called  Opportunity.     I  hasten  by 
Because  my  feet  are  treading  on  a  wheel, 

"  Being  more  swift  to  run  than  birds  to  fly. 

And  rightly  on  my  feet  my  wings  I  wear, 

To  blind  the  sight  of  those  who  track  and  spy ; 

"  Rightly  in  front  I  hold  my  scattered  hair 
To  veil  my  face,  and  down  my  breast  to  fall, 
Lest  men  should  know  my  name  when  I  am  there  ; 

"  And  leave  behind  my  back  no  wisp  at  all 
For  eager  folk  to  clutch,  what  time  I  glide 
So  near,  and  turn,  and  pass  beyond  recall." 


123 


"  Tell  me  ;  who  is  that  Figure  at  thy  side  ? ' 
"  Penitence.  Mark  this  well  that  by  degree 
Who  lets  me  go  must  keep  her  for  his  bride. 


"  And  thou  hast  spent  much  time  in  talk  with  me 
Busied  with  thoughts  and  fancies  vainly  grand, 
Nor  hast  remarked,  O  fool,  neither  dost  see 
How  lightly  I  have  fled  beneath  thy  hand." 


124 


No  Coward's  Song 


I  am  afraid  to  think  about  my  death, 
When  it  shall  be,  and  whether  in  great  pain 
I  shall  rise  up  and  fight  the  air  for  breath 
Or  calmly  wait  the  bursting  of  my  brain. 


I  am  no  coward  who  could  seek  in  fear 
A  folk-lore  solace  or  sweet  Indian  tales  : 
I  know  dead  men  are  deaf  and  cannot  hear 
The  singing  of  a  thousand  nightingales. 


I  know  dead  men  are  blind  and  cannot  see 
The  friend  that  shuts  in  horror  their  big  eyes, 
And  they  are  witless — O,  I'd  rather  be 
A  living  mouse  than  dead  as  a  man  dies. 


125 


Pillagt 


They  will  trample  our  gardens  to  mire,  they  will  bury  our 

city  in  fire ; 
Our  women  await  their  desire,  our  children  the  clang  of 

the  chain. 
Our  grave-eyed  judges  and  lords  they  will  bind  by  the 

neck  with  cords, 
And  harry  with  whips  and  swords  till  they  perish  of  shame 

or  pain, 
And  the  great  lapis  lazuli  dome  where   the   gods  of    our 

race  had  a  home 
Will  break  like  a  wave  from  the  foam,  and  shred  into 

fiery  rain. 


No  more  on  the  long  summer  days  shall  we  walk  in  the 

meadow-sweet  ways 
With  the  teachers  of  music  and  phrase,  and  the  masters 

of  dance  and  design. 
No  more  when  the  trumpeter  calls  shall  we  feast  in  the 

white-light  halls ; 
For   stayed   are   the   soft   footfalls   of   the   moon-browed 

bearers  of  wine, 

126 


And  lost  are  the  statues  of  Kings  and  of  Gods  with  great 

glorious  wings, 
And  an  empire  of  beautiful  things,  and  the  lips  of  the  love 

who  was  mine. 


We  have  vanished,  but  not  into  night,  though  our  manhood 

we  sold  to  delight, 
Neglecting  the  chances  of  fight,  unfit  for  the  spear  and 

the  bow. 
We  are  dead,  but  our  living  was  great :  we  are  dumb,  but 

a  song  of  our  State 
Will  roam  in  the  desert  and  wait,  with  its  burden  of  long, 

long  ago, 
Till  a  scholar  from  sea-bright  lands  unearth  from  the  years 

and  the  sands 
Some  image  with  beautiful  hands,  and  know  what  we  want 

him  to  know. 


127 


The  Ballad  of  Zacho 

{A  Greek  Legend) 

Zacho  the  King  rode  out  of  old 

(And  truth  is  what  I  tell) 
With  saddle  and  spurs  and  a  rein  of  gold 

To  find  the  door  of  Hell. 


And  round  around  him  surged  the  dead 

With  soft  and  lustrous  eyes. 
"  Why  came  you  here,  old  friend  ?  "  they  said 

"  Unwise  .  .  .  unwise  .  .  .  unwise ! 

"  You  should  have  left  to  the  prince  your  son 

Spurs  and  saddle  and  rein  : 
Your  bright  and  morning  days  are  done  ; 

You  ride  not  out  again." 

"  I  came  to  greet  my  friends  who  fell 

Sword-scattered  from  my  side  ; 
And  when  I've  drunk  the  wine  of  Hell 

I'll  out  again  and  ride  !  " 


128 


But  Charon  rose  and  caught  his  hair 

In  fingers  sharp  and  long. 
"  Loose  me,  old  ferryman  :   play  fair  : 

Try  if  my  arm  be  strong." 

Thrice  drave  he  hard  on  Charon's  breast, 
And  struck  him  thrice  to  ground, 

Till  stranger  ghosts  came  out  o'  the  west 
And  sat  like  stars  around. 

And  thrice  old  Charon  rose  up  high 

And  seized  him  as  before. 
"  Loose  me  !   a  broken  man  am  I, 

And  fight  with  you  no  more." 

"  Zacho,  arise,  my  home  is  near  ; 

I  pray  you  walk  with  me  : 
I've  hung  my  tent  so  full  of  fear 

You  well  may  shake  to  see. 

"  Home  to  my  home  come  they  who  fight, 

Who  fight  but  not  to  win  : 
Without,  my  tent  is  black  as  night, 

And  red  as  fire  within. 

"  Though  winds  blow  cold  and  I  grow  old, 

My  tent  is  fast  and  fair  : 
The  pegs  are  dead  men's  stout  right  arms, 

The  cords,  their  golden  hair." 

129 


Pavlovna  in  London 


I  listened  to  the  hunger-hearted  clown, 

Sadder  than  he  :  I  heard  a  woman  sing, — 
A  tall  dark  woman  in  a  scarlet  gown — 

And  saw  those  golden  toys  the  jugglers  fling. 
I  found  a  tawdry  room  and  there  sat  I, 

There  angled  for  each  murmur  soft  and  strange, 
The  pavement-cries  from  darkness  and  below  : 
I  watched  the  drinkers  laugh,  the  lovers  sigh, 

And  thought  how  little  all  the  world  would  change 
If  clowns  were  audience,  and  we  the  Show. 


What  starry  music  are  they  playing  now  ? 

What  dancing  in  this  dreary  theatre  ? 
Who  is  she  with  the  moon  upon  her  brow, 

And  who  the  fire-foot  god  that  follows  her  ? — 
Follows  among  those  unbelieved-in  trees 

Back-shadowing  in  their  parody  of  light 
Across  the  little  cardboard  balustrade  ; 
And  we,  like  that  poor  Faun  who  pipes  and  flees, 

Adore  their  beauty,  hate  it  for  too  bright, 
And  tremble,  half  in  rapture,  half  afraid. 


130 


Play  on,  O  furtive  and  heartbroken  Faun  ! 

What  is  your  thin  dull  pipe  for  such  as  they  ? 
I  know  you  blinded  by  the  least  white  dawn, 

And  dare  you  face  their  quick  and  quivering  Day  ? 
Dare  you,  like  us,  weak  but  undaunted  men, 

Reliant  on  some  deathless  spark  in  you 

Turn  your  dull  eyes  to  what  the  gods  desire, 
Touch  the  light  finger  of  your  goddess  ;   then 

After  a  second's  flash  of  gold  and  blue, 
Drunken  with  that  divinity,  expire  ? 


0  dance,  Diana,  dance,  Endymion, 

Till  calm  ancestral  shadows  lay  their  hands 
Gently  across  mine  eyes  :  in  days  long  gone 
Have  I  not  danced  with  gods  in  garden  lands  ? 

1  too  a  wild  unsighted  atom  borne 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  some  heroic  boy 

Span  in  the  dance  ten  thousand  years  ago, 
And  while  his  young  eyes  glittered  in  the  morn 
Something  of  me  felt  something  of  his  joy, 
And  longed  to  rule  a  body,  and  to  know. 


Singer  long  dead  and  sweeter-lipped  than  I, 
In  whose  proud  line  the  soul-dark  phrases  burn, 

Would  you  could  praise  their  passionate  symmetry. 
Who  loved  the  colder  shapes,  the  Attic  urn. 


131 


But  your  far  song,  my  faint  one,  what  are  they, 
And  what  their  dance  and  faery  thoughts  and  ours 
Or  night  abloom  with  splendid  stars  and  pale  ? 
'Tis  an  old  story  that  sweet  flowers  decay, 

And  dreams,  the  noblest,  die  as  soon  as  flowers, 
And  dancers,  all  the  world  of  them,  must  fail. 


132 


The  Sentimentalist 


There  lies  a  photograph  of  you 
Deep  in  a  box  of  broken  things. 

This  was  the  face  I  loved  and  knew 
Five  years  ago,  when  life  had  wings  ; 


Five  years  ago,  when  through  a  town 
Of  bright  and  soft  and  shadowy  bowers 

We  walked  and  talked  and  trailed  our  gown 
Regardless  of  the  cinctured  hours. 


The  precepts  that  we  held  I  kept ; 

Proudly  my  ways  with  you  I  went : 
We  lived  our  dreams  while  others  slept, 

And  did  not  shrink  from  sentiment. 


Now  I  go  East  and  you  stay  West 
And  when  between  us  Europe  lies 

I  shall  forget  what  I  loved  best, 
Away  from  lips  and  hands  and  eyes. 

133 


But  we  were  Gods  then  :  we  were  they 
Who  laughed  at  fools,  believed  in  friends, 

And  drank  to  all  that  golden  day 
Before  us,  which  this  poem  ends. 


134 


Don  Juan  in  Hell 

(From  Baudelaire) 

The  night  Don  Juan  came  to  pay  his  fees 
To  Charon,  by  the  caverned  water's  shore, 

A  beggar,  proud-eyed  as  Antisthenes, 

Stretched  out  his  knotted  fingers  on  the  oar. 

Mournful,  with  drooping  breasts  and  robes  unsewn 
The  shapes  of  women  swayed  in  ebon  skies, 

Trailing  behind  him  with  a  restless  moan 
Like  cattle  herded  for  a  sacrifice. 

Here,  grinning  for  his  wage,  stood  Sganarelle, 
And  here  Don  Luis  pointed,  bent  and  dim, 

To  show  the  dead  who  lined  the  holes  of  Hell, 
This  was  that  impious  son  who  mocked  at  him. 

The  hollow-eyed,  the  chaste  Elvira  came, 

Trembling  and  veiled,  to  view  her  traitor  spouse. 

Was  it  one  last  bright  smile  she  thought  to  claim, 
Such  as  made  sweet  the  morning  of  his  vows  ? 

135 


A  great  stone  man  rose  like  a  tower  on  board, 
Stood  at  the  helm  and  cleft  the  flood  profound  : 

But  the  calm  hero,  leaning  on  his  sword, 
Gazed  back,  and  would  not  offer  one  look  round. 


136 


The  Ballad  of  Iskander 


Ajlatun  and  Aristu  and  King  Iskander 
Are  Plato,  Aristotle,  Alexander  . 

Sultan  Iskander  sat  him  down 
On  his  golden  throne,  in  his  golden  crown, 
And  shouted,  "  Wine  and  flute-girls  three, 
And  the  Captain,  ho  !  of  my  ships  at  sea." 

He  drank  his  bowl  of  wine  ;  he  kept 
The  flute-girls  dancing  till  they  wept, 
Praised  and  kissed  their  painted  lips, 
And  turned  to  the  Captain  of  All  his  Ships 

And  cried,  "  0  Lord  of  my  Ships  that  go 
From  the  Persian  Gulf  to  the  Pits  of  Snow, 
Inquire  for  men  unknown  to  man  !  " 
Said  Sultan  Iskander  of  Yoonistan. 

"  Daroosh  is  dead,  and  I  am  King 
Of  Everywhere  and  Everything  : 
Yet  leagues  and  leagues  away  for  sure 
The  lion-hearted  dream  of  war. 


137 


"  Admiral,  I  command  you  sail ! 
Take  you  a  ship  of  silver  mail, 
And  fifty  sailors,  young  and  bold, 
And  stack  provision  deep  in  the  hold, 

"  And  seek  out  twenty  men  that  know 
All  babel  tongues  which  flaunt  and  flow  ; 
And  stay  !     Impress  those  learned  two, 
Old  Aflatun,  and  Aristu. 

"  And  set  your  prow  South-western  ways 
A  thousand  bright  and  dimpling  days, 
And  find  me  lion-hearted  Lords 
With  breasts  to  feed  Our  rusting  swords." 

The  Captain  of  the  Ships  bowed  low. 
"  Sir,"  he  replied,  "  I  will  do  so." 
And  down  he  rode  to  the  harbour  mouth, 
To  choose  a  boat  to  carry  him  South. 

And  he  launched  a  ship  of  silver  mail, 
With  fifty  lads  to  hoist  the  sail, 
And  twenty  wise — all  tongues  they  knew, 
And  Aflatun,  and  Aristu. 

There  had  not  dawned  the  second  day 
But  the  glittering  galleon  sailed  away, 
And  through  the  night  like  one  great  bell 
The  marshalled  armies  sang  farewell. 

138 


In  twenty  days  the  silver  ship 
Had  passed  the  Isle  of  Serendip, 
And  made  the  flat  Araunian  coasts 
Inhabited,  at  noon,  by  Ghosts. 

In  thirty  days  the  ship  was  far 

Beyond  the  land  of  Calcobar, 

Where  men  drink  Dead  Men's  Blood  for  wine, 

And  dye  their  beards  alizarine. 

But  on  the  hundredth  day  there  came 
Storm  with  his  windy  wings  aflame, 
And  drave  them  out  to  that  Lone  Sea 
Whose  shores  are  near  Eternity. 


For  seven  years  and  seven  years 
Sailed  those  forgotten  mariners, 
Nor  could  they  spy  on  either  hand 
The  faintest  level  of  good  red  land. 

Bird  or  fish  they  saw  not  one  ; 
There  swam  no  ship  beside  their  own, 
And  day-night  long  the  lilied  Deep 
Lay  round  them,  with  its  flowers  asleep. 

The  beams  began  to  warp  and  crack, 
The  silver  plates  turned  filthy  black, 
And  drooping  down  on  the  carven  rails 
Hung  those  once  lovely  silken  sails. 

139 


And  all  the  great  ship's  crew  who  were 
Such  noble  lads  to  do  and  dare 
Grew  old  and  tired  of  the  changeless  sky 
And  laid  them  down  on  the  deck  to  die. 

And  they  who  spake  all  tongues  there  be 
Made  antics  with  solemnity, 
Or  closely  huddled  each  to  each 
Talked  ribald  in  a  foreign  speech. 

And  Aflatun  and  Aristu 
Let  their  Beards  grow,  and  their  Beards  grew 
Round  and  about  the  mainmast  tree 
Where  they  stood  still,  and  watched  the  sea. 

And  day  by  day  their  Captain  grey 
Knelt  on  the  rotting  poop  to  pray  : 
And  yet  despite  ten  thousand  prayers 
They  saw  no  ship  that  was  not  theirs. 


When  thrice  the  seven  years  had  passed 
They  saw  a  ship,  a  ship  at  last ! 
Untarnished  glowed  its  silver  mail, 
Windless  bellied  its  silken  sail. 

With  a  shout  the  grizzled  sailors  rose 
Cursing  the  years  of  sick  repose, 
And  they  who  spake  in  tongues  unknown 
Gladly  reverted  to  their  own. 

140 


The  Captain  leapt  and  left  his  prayers 
And  hastened  down  the  dust-dark  stairs, 
And  taking  to  hand  a  brazen  Whip 
He  woke  to  life  the  long  dead  ship. 

But  Aflatun  and  Aristu, 

Who  had  no  work  that  they  could  do, 

Gazed  at  the  stranger  Ship  and  Sea 

With  their  beards  around  the  mainmast  tree. 

Nearer  and  nearer  the  new  boat  came, 

Till  the  hands  cried  out  on  the  old  ship's  shame- 

"  Silken  sail  to  a  silver  boat, 

We  too  shone  when  we  first  set  float !  " 

Swifter  and  swifter  the  bright  boat  sped, 

But  the  hands  spake  thin  like  men  long  dead— 

"  How  striking  like  that  boat  were  we 

In  the  days,  sweet  days,  when  we  put  to  sea" 

The  ship  all  black  and  the  ship  all  white 
Met  like  the  meeting  of  day  and  night, 
Met,  and  there  lay  serene  dark  green 
A  twilight  yard  of  the  sea  between. 

And  the  twenty  masters  of  foreign  speech 
Of  every  tongue  they  knew  tried  each  ; 
Smiling,  the  silver  Captain  heard, 
But  shook  his  head  and  said  no  word. 


141 


Then  Aflatun  and  Aristu 
Adressed  the  silver  Lord  anew, 
Speaking  their  language  of  Yoonistan 
Like  countrymen  to  a  countryman. 

And  "  Whence,"  they  cried,  "  O  Sons  of  Pride, 

Sail  you  the  dark  eternal  tide  ? 

Lie  your  halls  to  the  South  or  North, 

And  who  is  the  King  that  sent  you  forth  ?  " 

"  We  live,"  replied  that  Lord  with  a  smile, 
"  A  mile  beyond  the  millionth  mile. 
We  know  not  South  and  we  know  not  North, 
And  SULTAN  1SKANDER  sent  us  forth." 

Said  Aristu  to  Aflatun — 
"  Surely  our  King,  despondent  soon, 
Has  sent  this  second  ship  to  find 
Unconquered  tracts  of  humankind." 

But  Aflatun  turned  round  on  him 
Laughing  a  bitter  laugh  and  grim. 
"  Alas,"  he  said,  "  0  Aristu, 
A  white  weak  thin  old  fool  are  you. 

"  And  does  yon  silver  Ship  appear 
As  she  had  journeyed  twenty  year  ? 
And  has  that  silver  Captain's  face 
A  mortal  or  Immortal  grace  ? 


142 


"  Theirs  is  the  land  (as  well  I  know) 
Where  live  the  Shapes  of  Things  Below  : 
Theirs  is  the  country  where  they  keep 
The  Images  men  see  in  Sleep. 

"  Theirs  is  the  Land  beyond  the  Door, 
And  theirs  the  old  ideal  shore. 
They  steer  our  ship  :   behold  our  crew 
Ideal,  and  our  Captain  too. 

"  And  lo  !  beside  that  mainmast  tree 
Two  tall  and  shining  forms  I  see, 
And  they  are  what  we  ought  to  be, 
Yet  we  are  they,  and  they  are  we." 

He  spake,  and  some  young  Zephyr  stirred 
The  two  ships  touched  :   no  sound  was  heard  ; 
The  Black  Ship  crumbled  into  air  ; 
Only  the  Phantom  Ship  was  there. 

And  a  great  cry  rang  round  the  sky 
Of  glorious  singers  sweeping  by, 
And  calm  and  fair  on  waves  that  shone 
The  Silver  Ship  sailed  on  and  on. 


H3 


The  Golden  Journey  to  Samarkand 


PROLOGUE 

We  who  with  songs  beguile  your  pilgrimage 
And  swear  that  Beauty  lives  though  lilies  die, 

We  Poets  of  the  proud  old  lineage 

Who  sing  to  find  your  hearts,  we  know  not  why, — 

What  shall  we  tell  you  ?     Tales,  marvellous  tales 
Of  ships  and  stars  and  isles  where  good  men  rest, 

Where  nevermore  the  rose  of  sunset  pales, 

And  winds  and  shadows  fall  toward  the  West : 

And  there  the  world's  first  huge  white-bearded  kings 
In  dim  glades  sleeping,  murmur  in  their  sleep, 

And  closer  round  their  breasts  the  ivy  clings, 
Cutting  its  pathway  slow  and  red  and  deep. 

II 

And  how  beguile  you  ?     Death  has  no  repose 
Warmer  and  deeper  than  that  Orient  sand 

Which  hides  the  beauty  and  bright  faith  of  those 
Who  made  the  Golden  Journey  to  Samarkand. 


144 


And  now  they  wait  and  whiten  peaceably, 
Those  conquerors,  those  poets,  those  so  fair  : 

They  know  time  comes,  not  only  you  and  I, 

But  the  whole  world  shall  whiten,  here  or  there  ; 

When  those  long  caravans  that  cross  the  plain 
With  dauntless  feet  and  sound  of  silver  bells 

Put  forth  no  more  for  glory  or  for  gain, 
Take  no  more  solace  from  the  palm-girt  wells. 

When  the  great  markets  by  the  sea  shut  fast 
All  that  calm  Sunday  that  goes  on  and  on  : 

When  even  lovers  find  their  peace  at  last, 
And  Earth  is  but  a  star,  that  once  had  shone. 


H5 


Epilog 


ue 


At  the  Gate  of  the  Sun,  Bagdad,  in  olden  time 


The  Merchants  (together) 

Away,  for  we  are  ready  to  a  man  ! 

Our  camels  sniff  the  evening  and  are  glad. 
Lead  on,  O  Master  of  the  Caravan  : 

Lead  on  the  Merchant-Princes  of  Bagdad. 

The  Chief  Draper 

Have  we  not  Indian  carpets  dark  as  wine, 

Turbans  and  sashes,  gowns  and  bows  and  veils, 

And  broideries  of  intricate  design, 

And  printed  hangings  in  enormous  bales  ? 

The  Chief  Grocer 

We  have  rose-candy,  we  have  spikenard, 
Mastic  and  terebinth  and  oil  and  spice, 

And  such  sweet  jams  meticulously  jarred 
As  God's  own  Prophet  eats  in  Paradise. 

,46 


The  Principal  Jews 

And  we  have  manuscripts  in  peacock  styles 
By  Ali  of  Damascus  ;  we  have  swords 

Engraved  with  storks  and  apes  and  crocodiles, 
And  heavy  beaten  necklaces,  for  Lords. 


The  Master  of  the  Caravan 
But  you  are  nothing  but  a  lot  of  Jews. 

The  Principal  Jews 
Sir,  even  dogs  have  daylight,  and  we  pay. 

The  Master  of  the  Caravan 

But  who  are  ye  in  rags  and  rotten  shoes, 
You  dirty-bearded,  blocking  up  the  way  ? 

The  Pilgrims 

We  are  the  Pilgrims,  master  ;  we  shall  go 

Always  a  little  further  :  it  may  be 
Beyond  that  last  blue  mountain  barred  with  snow, 

Across  that  angry  or  that  glimmering  sea, 

H7 


White  on  a  throne  or  guarded  in  a  cave 
There  lives  a  prophet  who  can  understand 

Why  men  were  born  :  but  surely  we  are  brave, 
Who  make  the  Golden  Journey  to  Samarkand. 


The  Chief  Merchant 
We  gnaw  the  nail  of  hurry.     Master,  away  ! 

One  of  the  Women 

O  turn  your  eyes  to  where  your  children  stand. 
Is  not  Bagdad  the  beautiful  ?     O  stay ! 

The  Merchants  (in  chorus) 
We  take  the  Golden  Road  to  Samarkand. 

An  Old  Man 


Have  you  not  girls  and  garlands  in  your  homes, 
Eunuchs  and  Syrian  boys  at  your  command  ? 
Seek  not  excess  :  God  hateth  him  who  roams  ! 


148 


The  Merchants  (in  chorus) 
We  make  the  Golden  Journey  to  Samarkand. 

A  Pilgrim  with  a  Beautiful  Voice 

Sweet  to  ride  forth  at  evening  from  the  wells 
When  shadows  pass  gigantic  on  the  sand, 

And  softly  through  the  silence  beat  the  bells 
Along  the  Golden  Road  to  Samarkand. 

A  Merchant 

We  travel  not  for  trafficking  alone  : 

By  hotter  winds  our  fiery  hearts  are  fanned  : 

For  lust  of  knowing  what  should  not  be  known 
We  make  the  Golden  Journey  to  Samarkand, 

The  Master  of  the  Caravan 
Open  the  gate,  O  watchman  of  the  night ! 

The  Watchman 

Ho,  travellers,  I  open.     For  what  land 
Leave  you  the  dim-moon  city  of  delight  ? 

149 


The  Merchants  (with  a  shout) 
We  make  the  Golden  Journey  to  Samarkand. 

[The  Caravan  passes  through  the  gate] 

The  Watchman  (consoling  the  women) 

What  would  ye,  ladies  ?     It  was  ever  thus. 
Men  are  unwise  and  curiously  planned. 

A  Woman 
They  have  their  dreams,  and  do  not  think  of  us. 

Voices  of  the  Caravan  (in  the  distance,  singing) 
We  make  the  Golden  Journey  to  Samarkand. 


150 


Gates  of  Damascus 


Four  great  gates  has  the  city  of  Damascus, 

And  four  Grand  Wardens,  on  their  spears  reclining, 
All  day  long  stand  like  tall  stone  men 

And  sleep  on  the  towers  when  the  moon  is  shining. 

0 

This  is  the  song  of  the  East  Gate  Warden 

When  he  locks  the  great  gate  and  smokes  in  his  garden. 

Postern  of  Fate,  the  Desert  Gate,  Disaster's  Cavern-,  Fort 

of  Fear, 
The  Portal  of  Bagdad  am  I,  the  Doorway  of  Diarbekir. 

The  Persian  Dawn  with  new  desires  may  net  the  flushing 

mountain  spires : 
But  my  gaunt  buttress  still  rejects  the  suppliance  of  those 

mellow  fires. 

Pass  not  beneath,  O  Caravan,  or  pass  not  singing.     Have 

you  heard 
That  silence  where  the  birds  are  dead  yet  something  pipeth 

like  a  bird  ? 


ISI 


Pass  not  beneath !     Men  say  there  blows  in  stony  deserts 

still  a  rose 
But  with  no  scarlet  to  her  leaf — and  from  whose  heart  no 

perfume  flows. 

Wilt  thou  bloom  red  where  she  buds  pale,  thy  sister  rose  ? 

Wilt  thou  not  fail 
When   noonday  flashes  like  a  flail  ?     Leave   nightingale 

the  caravan ! 

Pass  then,  pass  all !  "  Bagdad ! "  ye  cry,  and  down  the 

billows  of  blue  sky 
Ye  beat  the  bell  that  beats  to  hell,  and  who  shall  thrust  ye 

back  ?     Not  I. 

The  Sun  who  flashes  through  the  head  and  paints  the 

shadows  green  and  red, — 
The  Sun  shall  eat  thy  fleshless  dead,  O  Caravan,  O  Caravan  ! 

And  one  who  licks  his  lips  for  thirst  with  fevered  eyes  shall 

face  in  fear 
The  palms  that  wave,   the  streams  that  burst,  his  last 

mirage,  O  Caravan ! 

And  one — the  bird-voiced  Singing-man — shall  fall  behind 

thee,  Caravan ! 
And  God  shall  meet  him  in  the  night,  and  he  shall  sing  as 

best  he  can. 


152 


And  one  the  Bedouin  shall  slay,  and  one,  sand-stricken  on 

the  way- 
Go  dark  and  blind ;    and  one  shall  say — "  How  lonely  is 

the  Caravan !  " 


Pass  out  beneath,  O  Caravan,  Doom's  Caravan,  Death's 

Caravan ! 
I  had  not  told  ye,  fools,  so  much,  save  that  I  heard  your 

Singing-man. 

This  was  sung  by  the  West  Gate's  keeper 
When  heaven's  hollow  dome  grew  deeper. 

I  am  the  gate  toward  the  sea  :  O  sailor  men,  pass  out  from 

me ! 
I  hear  you  high  on  Lebanon,  singing  the  marvels  of  the  sea. 


The  dragon-green,  the  luminous,  the  dark,  the  serpent- 
haunted  sea, 

The  snow-besprinkled  wine  of  earth,  the  white-and-blue- 
flower  foaming  sea. 


Beyond  the  sea  are  towns  with  towers,  carved  with  lions 

and  lily  flowers, 
And  not  a  soul  in  all  those  lonely  streets  to  while  away 

the  hours. 


153 


Beyond  the  towns,  an  isle  where,  bound,  a  naked  giant  bites 

the  ground : 
The  shadow  of  a  monstrous  wing  looms  on  his  back :   and 

still  no  sound. 


Beyond  the  isle  a  rock  that  screams  like  madmen  shouting 

in  their  dreams, 
From  whose  dark  issues  night  and  day  blood  crashes  in  a 

thousand  streams. 

Beyond  the  rock  is  Restful  Bay,  where  no  wind  breathes  or 

ripple  stirs, 
And  there  on  Roman  ships,  they  say,  stand  rows  of  metal 

mariners. 

Beyond  the  bay  in  utmost  West  old  Solomon  the  Jewish 

King 
Sits  with  his  beard  upon  his  breast,  and  grips  and  guards 

his  magic  ring : 

And  when  that  ring  is  stolen,  he  will  rise  in  outraged 

majesty, 
And  take  the  World  upon  his  back,  and  fling  the  World 

beyond  the  sea. 


iS4 


This  is  the  song  of  the  North  Gate's  master, 
Who  singeth  fast,  but  drinketh  faster. 

I  am  the  gay  Aleppo  Gate  :   a  dawn,  a  dawn  and  thou  art 

there  : 
Eat  not  thy  heart  with  fear  and  care,  O  brother  of  the  beast 

we  hate ! 

Thou  hast  not  many  miles  to  tread,  nor  other  foes  than  fleas 

to  dread ; 
Horns  shall  behold  thy  morning  meal  and  Hama  see  thee 

safe  in  bed. 

Take  to  Aleppo  filigrane,  and  take  them  paste  of  apricots, 
And  coffee  tables  botched  with  pearl,   and  little  beaten 
brassware  pots : 

And  thou  shalt  sell  thy  wares  for  thrice  the  Damascene 

retailers'  price, 
And  buy  a  fat  Armenian  slave  who  smelleth  odorous  and  nice. 

Some  men  of  noble  stock  were  made :    some  glory  in  the 

murder-blade  : 
Some  praise  a  Science  or  an  Art,  but  I  like  honourable 

Trade ! 

Sell  them  the  rotten,  buy  the  ripe  !     Their  heads  are  weak  ; 

their  pockets  burn. 
Aleppo  men  are  mighty  fools.     Salaam  Aleikum !     Safe 

return ! 


155 


This  is  the  song  of  the  South  Gate  Holder, 
A  silver  man,  hut  his  song  is  older. 

I  am  the  Gate  that  fears  no  fall :  the  Mihrab  of  Damascus 

wall, 
The  bridge  of  booming  Sinai :  the  Arch  of  Allah  all  in  all. 

O  spiritual  pilgrim  rise :    the  night  has  grown  her  single 

horn : 
The  voices  of   the  souls  unborn  are  half  adream   with 

Paradise. 


To  Meccah  thou  hast  turned  in  prayer  with  aching  heart 

and  eyes  that  burn  : 
Ah  Hajji,  whither  wilt  thou  turn  when  thou  art  there, 

when  thou  art  there  ? 


God  be  thy  guide  from  camp  to  camp  :   God  be  thy  shade 

from  well  to  well ; 
God  grant  beneath  the  desert  stars  thou  hear  the  Prophet's 

camel  bell. 


And  God  shall  make  thy  body  pure,  and  give  thee  knowledge 

to  endure 
This  ghost-life's  piercing  phantom-pain,  and  bring  thee  out 

to  Life  again. 

156 


And  God  shall  make  thy  soul  a  Glass  where  eighteen 

thousand  ^Eons  pass, 
And  thou  shalt  see  the  gleaming  Worlds  as  men  see  dew 

upon  the  grass. 


And  son  of  Islam,  it  may  be  that  thou  shalt  learn  at  journey's 

end 
Who  walks  thy  garden  eve  on  eve,  and  bows  his  head,  and 

calls  thee  Friend. 


157 


Yasmin 


A  Ghazel 


How  splendid  in  the  morning  glows  the  lily :    with  what 

\  >v     grace  he  throws 

His  supplication  to  the  rose  :  do  roses  nod  the  head,  Yasmin? 

But  when  the  silver  dove  descends  I  find  the  little  flower  of 

friends 
Whose  very  name  that  sweetly  ends  I  say  when  I  have  said, 

Yasmin. 

The  morning  light  is  clear  and  cold :    I  dare  not  in  that 

light  behold 
A  whiter  light,  a  deeper  gold,  a  glory  too  far  shed,  Yasmin. 

But  when  the  deep  red  eye  of  day  is  level  with  the  lone 

highway, 
And  some  to  Meccah  turn  to  pray,  and  I  toward  thy  bed, 

Yasmin ; 

I58 


Or  when  the  wind  beneath  the  moon  is  drifting  like  a  soul 

aswoon, 
And  harping  planets  talk  love's  tune  with  milky  wings 

outspread,  Yasmin, 

Shower  down  thy  love,  0  burning  bright !  For  one  night  or 

the  other  night 
Will  come  the  Gardener  in  white,  and  gathered  flowers  are 

dead,  Yasmin. 


159 


Saadabad 


Let  us  deal  kindly  with  a  heart  of  old  by  sorrow  torn  : 
Come  with  Nedim  to  Saadabad,  my  love,  this  silver  morn  : 
I  hear  the  boatmen  singing  from  our  caique  on  the  Horn, 
Waving  cypress,  waving  cypress,  let  us  go  to  Saadabad  ! 


We   shall   watch   the   Sultan's   fountains   ripple,   rumble, 

splash  and  rise 
Over  terraces  of  marble,  under  the  blue  balconies, 
Leaping  through  the  plaster  dragon's  hollow  mouth  and 

empty  eyes : 
Waving  cypress,  waving  cypress,  let  us  go  to  Saadabad. 


Lie  a  little  to  your  mother  :  tell  her  you  must  out  to  pray, 
And  we'll  slink  along  the  alleys,  thieves  of  all  a  summer 

day, 
Down  to  the  worn  old  watersteps,  and  then,  my  love,  away  : 
0  my  cypress,  waving  cypress,  let  us  go  to  Saadabad. 

160 


You  and  I,  and  with  us  only  some  poor  lover  in  a  dream  : 
I  and  you — perhaps  one  minstrel  who  will  sing  beside  the 

stream. 
Ah  Nedim  will  be  the  minstrel,  and  the  lover  be  Nedim, 
Waving  cypress,  waving  cypress,  when  we  go  to  Saadabad  ! 


II 


Down  the  Horn  Constantinople  fades  and  flashes  in  the  blue, 
Rose  of  cities  dropping  with  the  heavy  summer's  burning 

dew, 
Fading  now  as  falls  the  Orient  evening  round  the  sky  and 

you, 
Fading  into  red  and  silver  as  we  row  to  Saadabad. 

Banish  then,  O  Grecian  eyes,  the  passion  of  the  waiting 

West ! 
Shall  God's  holy  monks  not  enter  on  a  day  God  knoweth 

best 
To  crown  the  Roman  king  again,  and  hang  a  cross  upon  his 

breast  ? 
Daughter  of  the  Golden  Islands,  come  away  to  Saadabad. 

And  a  thousand  swinging  steeples  shall  begin  as  they  began 
When  Heraclius  rode  home  from  the  wrack  of  Ispahan, 
Naked  captives  pulled  behind  him,  double  eagles  in  the  van — 
But  is  that  a  tale  for  lovers  on  the  way  to  Saadabad  ? 

161  L 


Rather  now  shall  you  remember  how  of  old  two  such  as  we, 
You  like  her  the  laughing  mistress  of  a  poet,  him  or  me, 
Came  to  find  the  flowery  lawns  that  give  the  soul  tranquil- 
lity : 
Let  the  boatmen  row  no  longer — for  we  land  at  Saadabad. 


See  you  not  that  moon-dim  caique  with  the  lovers  at  the 

prow, 
Straining  eyes  and  aching  lips,  and  touching  hands  as  we  do 

now, 
See  you  not  the  turbaned  shadows  passing,  whence  ?    and 

moving,  how  ? 
Are   the  ghosts   of   all   the   Moslems   floating    down    to 

Saadabad  ? 


Broken  fountains,  phantom  waters,  nevermore  to  glide  and 

gleam 
From  the  dragon-mouth  in  plaster  sung  of  old  by  old 

Nedim, 
Beautiful  and  broken  fountains,  keep  you  still  your  Sultan's 

dream, 
Or  remember  how  his  poet  took  a  girl  to  Saadabad  ? 


162 


The  Hammam  Name 


(From  a  poem  by  a  Turkish  lady) 

Winsome  Torment  rose  from  slumber,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and 

went  his  way 
Down     the     street     towards     the    Hammam.     Goodness 

gracious  !  people  say,  h» 

What  a  handsome  countenance !     The  sun  has  risen  twice 

to-day ! 
And  as  for  the  Undressing  Room  it  quivered  in  dismay. 
With  the  glory  of  his  presence  see  the  window  panes  perspire, 
And  the  water  in  the  basin  boils  and  bubbles  with  desire. 


Now  his  lovely  cap  is  treated  like  a  lover  :  off  it  goes  ! 
Next  his  belt  the  boy  unbuckles ;   down  it  falls,  and  at  his 

toes 
All  the  growing  heap  of  garments  buds  and  blossoms  like 

a  rose. 
Last  of  all  his  shirt  came  flying.    Ah,  I  tremble  to  disclose 
How  the  shell  came  off  the  almond,  how  the  lily  showed  its 

face, 
How  I  saw  a  silver  mirror  taken  flashing  from  its  case. 

163 


He  was  gazed  upon  so  hotly  that  his  body  grew  too  hot, 
So  the  bathman  seized  the  adorers  and  expelled  them  on 

the  spot ; 
Then  the  desperate  shampooer  his  propriety  forgot, 
Stumbled  when  he  brought  the  pattens,  fumbled  when  he 

tied  a  knot, 
And  remarked  when  musky  towels  had  obscured  his  idol's 

hips, 
See  Love's  Plenilune,  Mashallah,  in  a  partial  eclipse ! 


Desperate  the  loofah  wriggled  :  soap  was  melted  instantly  : 
All  the  bubble  hearts  were  broken.     Yes,  for  them  as  well 

as  me, 
Bitterness  was  born  of  beauty  ;   as  for  the  shampooer,  he 
Fainted,  till  a  jug  of  water  set  the  Captive  Reason  free. 
Happy  bath !     The  baths  of  heaven  cannot  wash  their 

spotted  moon : 
You  are  doing  well  with  this  one.     Not  a  spot  upon  him 

soon ! 


Now  he  leaves  the  luckless  bath  for  fear  of  setting  it  alight ; 
Seizes  on  a  yellow  towel  growing  yellower  in  fright, 
Polishes  the  pearly  surface  till  it  burns  disastrous  bright, 
And  a  bathroom  window  shatters  in  amazement  at  the 

sight. 
Like  the  fancies  of  a  dreamer  frail  and  soft  his  garments 

shine 
As  he  robes  a  mirror  body  shapely  as  a  poet's  line. 


164 


Now  upon  his  cup  of  coffee  see  the  lips  of  Beauty  bent : 
And  they  perfume  him  with  incense  and  they  sprinkle  him 

with  scent, 
Call  him  Bey  and  call  him  Pasha,  and  receive  with  deep 

content 
The  gratuities  he  gives  them,  smiling  and  indifferent. 
Out  he  goes  :    the  mirror  strains  to  kiss  her  darling ;   out 

he  goes  ! 
Since  the  flame  is  out,  the  water  can  but  freeze. 

The  water  froze. 


165 


In  Phceacia 


Had  I  that  haze  of  streaming  blue, 

That  sea  below,  the  summer  faced, 
I'd  work  and  weave  a  dress  for  you 

And  kneel  to  clasp  it  round  your  waist, 
And  broider  with  those  burning  bright 

Threads  of  the  Sun  across  the  sea, 
And  bind  it  with  the  silver  light 

That  wavers  in  the  olive  tree. 

Had  I  the  gold  that  like  a  river 

Pours  through  our  garden,  eve  by  eve, 
Our  garden  that  goes  on  for  ever 

Out  of  the  world,  as  we  believe  ; 
Had  I  that  glory  on  the  vine 

That  splendour  soft  on  tower  and  town, 
I'd  forge  a  crown  of  that  sunshine, 

And  break  before  your  feet  the  crown. 

Through  the  great  pinewood  I  have  been 
An  hour  before  the  lustre  dies, 

Nor  have  such  forest-colours  seen 
As  those  that  glimmer  in  your  eyes. 

166 


Ah,  misty  woodland,  down  whose  deep 
And  twilight  paths  I  love  to  stroll 

To  meadows  quieter  than  sleep 
And  pools  more  secret  than  the  soul ! 


Could  I  but  steal  that  awful  throne 

Ablaze  with  dreams  and  songs  and  stars 
Where  sits  Night,  a  man  of  stone, 

On  the  frozen  mountain  spars 
I'd  cast  him  down,  for  he  is  old, 

And  set  my  Lady  there  to  rule, 
Gowned  with  silver,  crowned  with  gold, 

And  in  her  eyes  the  forest  pool. 


167 


Epithalamion 


Smile  then,  children,  hand  in  hand 

Bright  and  white  as  the  summer  snow, 

Or  that  young  King  of  the  Grecian  land, 

Who  smiled  on  Thetis,  long  ago, — 

So  long  ago  when,  heart  aflame, 

The  grave  and  gentle  Peleus  came 

To  the  shore  where  the  halcyon  flies 

To  wed  the  maiden  of  his  devotion, 

The  dancing  lady  with  sky-blue  eyes, 

Thetis,  the  darling  of  Paradise, 

The  daughter  of  old  Ocean. 

Seas  before  her  rise  and  break, 

Dolphins  tumble  in  her  wake 

Along  the  sapphire  courses  : 

With  Tritons  ablow  on  their  pearly  shells 

With  a  plash  of  waves  and  a  clash  of  bells 

From  the  glimmering  house  where  her  Father  dwells 

She  drives  his  white-tail  horses  ! 

And  the  boys  of  heaven  gowned  and  crowned, 

Have  Aphrodite  to  lead  them  round, 

Aphrodite  with  hair  unbound 


1 68 


Her  silver  breasts  adorning. 

Her  long,  her  soft,  her  streaming  hair, 

Falls  on  a  silver  breast  laid  bare 

By  the  stir  and  swing  of  the  sealit  air 

And  the  movement  of  the  morning. 


169 


Hyalt 


Ito  TvaXi,  oto  yaAafto  f5pa\e 

Island  in  blue  of  summer  floating  on, 

Little  brave  sister  of  the  Sporades, 
Hail  and  farewell !     I  pass,  and  thou  art  gone, 

So  fast  in  fire  the  great  boat  beats  the  seas. 

But  slowly  fade,  soft  Island  !     Ah  to  know 
Thy  town  and  who  the  gossips  of  thy  town, 

What  flowers  flash  in  thy  meadows,  what  winds  blow 
Across  thy  mountain  when  the  sun  goes  down. 

There  is  thy  market,  where  the  fisher  throws 

His  gleaming  fish  that  gasp  in  the  death-bright  dawn  : 

And  there  thy  Prince's  house,  painted  old  rose, 
Beyond  the  olives,  crowns  its  slope  of  lawn. 

And  is  thy  Prince  so  rich  that  he  displays 
At  festal  board  the  flesh  of  sheep  and  kine  ? 

Or  dare  he — summer  days  are  long  hot  days — 
Load  up  with  Asian  snow  his  Coan  wine  ? 


170 


Behind  a  rock,  thy  harbour,  whence  a  noise 
Of  tarry  sponge-boats  hammered  lustily  : 

And  from  that  little  rock  thy  naked  boys 
Like  burning  arrows  shower  upon  the  sea. 


And  there  by  the  old  Greek  chapel — there  beneath 
A  thousand  poppies  that  each  sea-wind  stirs 

And  cyclamen,  as  honied  and  white  as  death, 
Dwell  deep  in  earth  the  elder  islanders. 


Thy  name  I  know  not,  Island,  but  his  name 

I  know,  and  why  so  proud  thy  mountain  stands, 

And  what  thy  happy  secret,  and  Who  came 
Drawing  his  painted  galley  up  thy  sands. 


For  my  Gods — Trident  Gods  who  deep  and  pale 
Swim  in  the  Latmian  Sound,  have  murmured  thus 

"  To  such  an  island  came  with  a  pompous  sail 
On  his  first  voyage  young  Herodotus." 


Since  then — tell  me  no  tale  how  Romans  built, 
Saracens  plundered — or  that  bearded  lords 

Rowed  by  to  fight  for  Venice,  and  here  spilt 
Their  blood  across  the  bay  that  keeps  their  swords. 


171 


That  old  Greek  day  was  all  thy  history  : 
For  that  did  Ocean  poise  thee  as  a  flower. 

Farewell :  this  boat  attends  not  such  as  thee  : 
Farewell :  I  was  thy  lover  for  an  hour  ! 

Farewell !     But  I  who  call  upon  thy  caves  ; 

Am  far  like  thee, — like  thee,  unknown  and  poor. 
And  yet  my  words  are  music  as  thy  waves, 

And  like  thy  rocks  shall  down  through  time  endure. 


172 


Santorin 


(A  Legend  of  the  Mgean) 

"  Who  are  you,  Sea  Lady, 

And  where  in  the  seas  are  we  ? 

I  have  too  long  been  steering 

By  the  flashes  in  your  eyes. 

Why  drops  the  moonlight  through  my  heart, 

And  why  so  quietly 

Go  the  great  engines  of  my  boat 

As  if  their  souls  were  free  ?  " 

"  Oh  ask  me  not,  bold  sailor  ; 

Is  not  your  ship  a  magic  ship 

That  sails  without  a  sail : 

Are  not  these  isles  the  Isles  of  Greece 

And  dust  upon  the  sea  ? 

But  answer  me  three  questions 

And  give  me  answers  three. 

What  is  your  ship  ?  "    "  A  British." 

"  And  where  may  Britain  be  ?  " 

"  Oh  it  lies  north,  dear  lady  ; 

It  is  a  small  country." 


173 


"  Yet  you  will  know  my  lover, 

Though  you  live  far  away  : 

And  you  will  whisper  where  he  has  gone, 

That  lily  boy  to  look  upon 

And  whiter  than  the  spray." 

"  How  should  I  know  your  lover, 

Lady  of  the  sea  ?  " 

"  Alexander,  Alexander, 

The  King  of  the  World  was  he." 

"  Weep  not  for  him,  dear  lady, 

But  come  aboard  my  ship. 

So  many  years  ago  he  died, 

He's  dead  as  dead  can  be." 

"  O  base  and  brutal  sailor 

To  lie  this  lie  to  me. 

His  mother  was  the  foam-foot 

Star-sparkling  Aphrodite ; 

His  father  was  Adonis 

Who  lives  away  in  Lebanon, 

In  stony  Lebanon,  where  blooms 

His  red  anemone. 

But  where  is  Alexander, 

The  soldier  Alexander, 

My  golden  love  of  olden  days 

The  King  of  the  world  and  me  ?  " 


She  sank  into  the  moonlight 
And  the  sea  was  only  sea. 


174 


A  Ship,  an  Is/e,  a  Sickle  Moon 


A  ship,  an  isle,  a  sickle  moon — 
With  few  but  with  how  splendid  stars 
The  mirrors  of  the  sea  are  strewn 
Between  their  silver  bars  ! 


An  isle  beside  an  isle  she  lay, 
The  pale  ship  anchored  in  the  bay, 
While  in  the  young  moon's  port  of  gold 
A  star-ship — as  the  mirrors  told — 
Put  forth  its  great  and  lonely  light 
To  the  unreflecting  Ocean,  Night. 
And  still,  a  ship  upon  her  seas, 
The  isle  and  the  island  cypresses 
Went  sailing  on  without  the  gale  : 
And  still  there  moved  the  moon  so  pale, 
A  crescent  ship  without  a  sail ! 


175 


Oak  and  Olive 


I 


Though  I  was  born  a  Londoner, 
And  bred  in  Gloucestershire, 

I  walked  in  Hellas  years  ago 
With  friends  in  white  attire  : 

And  I  remember  how  my  soul 
Drank  wine  as  pure  as  fire. 

And  when  I  stand  by  Charing  Cross 

I  can  forget  to  hear 
The  crash  of  all  those  smoking  wheels, 

When  those  cold  flutes  and  clear 
Pipe  with  such  fury  down  the  street, 

My  hands  grow  moist  with  fear. 

And  there's  a  hall  in  Bloomsbury 

No  more  I  dare  to  tread, 
For  all  the  stone  men  shout  at  me 

And  swear  they  are  not  dead ; 
And  once  I  touched  a  broken  girl 

And  knew  that  marble  bled. 

176 


II 

But  when  I  walk  in  Athens  town 

That  swims  in  dust  and  sun 
Perverse,  I  think  of  London  then 

Where  massive  work  is  done, 
And  with  what  sweep  at  Westminster 

The  rayless  waters  run. 

I  ponder  how  from  Attic  seed 

There  grew  an  English  tree, 
How  Byron  like  his  heroes  fell, 

Fighting  a  country  free, 
And  Swinburne  took  from  Shelley's  lips 

The  kiss  of  Poetry. 

And  while  our  poets  chanted  Pan 

Back  to  his  pipes  and  power, 
Great  Verrall,  bending  at  his  desk, 

And  searching  hour  on  hour 
Found  out  old  gardens,  where  the  wise 

May  pluck  a  Spartan  flower. 

Ill 

When  I  go  down  the  Gloucester  lanes 
My  friends  are  deaf  and  blind  : 

Fast  as  they  turn  their  foolish  eyes 
The  Maenads  leap  behind, 

And  when  I  hear  the  fire-winged  feet, 
They  only  hear  the  wind. 

177  M 


Have  I  not  chased  the  fluting  Pan 
Through  Cranham's  sober  trees  ? 

Have  I  not  sat  on  Painswick  Hill 
With  a  nymph  upon  my  knees, 

And  she  as  rosy  as  the  dawn, 
And  naked  as  the  breeze  ? 

IV 

But  when  I  lie  in  Grecian  fields, 

Smothered  in  asphodel, 
Or  climb  the  blue  and  barren  hills, 

Or  sing  in  woods  that  smell 
With  such  hot  spices  of  the  South 

As  mariners  might  sell — 

Then  my  heart  turns  where  no  sun  burns, 

To  lands  of  glittering  rain, 
To  fields  beneath  low-clouded  skies 

New-widowed  of  their  grain, 
And  Autumn  leaves  like  blood  and  gold 

That  strew  a  Gloucester  lane. 


Oh  well  I  know  sweet  Hellas  now, 

And  well  I  knew  it  then, 
When  I  with  starry  lads  walked  out- 

But  ah,  for  home  again  ! 
Was  I  not  bred  in  Gloucestershire, 

One  of  the  Englishmen  ! 

178 


Brumana 


Oh  shall  I  never  never  be  home  again  ? 

Meadows  of  England  shining  in  the  rain 

Spread  wide  your  daisied  lawns  :  your  ramparts  green 

With  briar  fortify,  with  blossom  screen 

Till  my  far  morning — and  O  streams  that  slow 

And  pure  and  deep  through  plains  and  playlands  go, 

For  me  your  love  and  all  your  kingcups  store, 

And — dark  militia  of  the  southern  shore, 

Old  fragrant  friends — preserve  me  the  last  lines 

Of  that  long  saga  which  you  sung  me,  pines, 

When,  lonely  boy,  beneath  the  chosen  tree 

I  listened,  with  my  eyes  upon  the  sea. 


O  traitor  pines,  you  sang  what  life  has  found 

The  falsest  of  fair  tales. 

Earth  blew  a  far-horn  prelude  all  around, 

That  native  music  of  her  forest  home, 

While  from  the  sea's  blue  fields  and  syren  dales 

Shadows  and  light  noon-spectres  of  the  foam 

Riding  the  summer  gales 

On  aery  viols  plucked  an  idle  sound. 


179 


Hearing  you  sing,  O  trees, 

Hearing  you  murmur,  "  There  are  older  seas, 

That  beat  on  vaster  sands, 

Where  the  wise  snailfish  move  their  pearly  towers 

To  carven  rocks  and  sculptured  promont'ries," 

Hearing  you  whisper,  "  Lands 

Where  blaze  the  unimaginable  flowers." 


Beneath  me  in  the  valley  waves  the  palm, 
Beneath,  beyond  the  valley,  breaks  the  sea  ; 
Beneath  me  sleep  in  mist  and  light  and  calm 
Cities  of  Lebanon,  dream-shadow-dim, 
Where  Kings  of  Tyre  and  Kings  of  Tyre  did  rule 
In  ancient  days  in  endless  dynasty, 
And  all  around  the  snowy  mountains  swim 
Like  mighty  swans  afloat  in  heaven's  pool. 


But  I  will  walk  upon  the  wooded  hill 

Where  stands  a  grove,  O  pines,  of  sister  pines, 

And  when  the  downy  twilight  droops  her  wing 

And  no  sea  glimmers  and  no  mountain  shines 

My  heart  shall  listen  still. 

For  pines  are  gossip  pines  the  wide  world  through 

And  full  of  runic  tales  to  sigh  or  sing. 

'Tis  ever  sweet  through  pines  to  see  the  sky 

Mantling  a  deeper  gold  or  darker  blue. 

'Tis  ever  sweet  to  lie 

On  the  dry  carpet  of  the  needles  brown, 


1 80 


And  though  the  fanciful  green  lizard  stir 
And  windy  odours  light  as  thistledown 
Breathe  from  the  lavdanon  and  lavender, 
Half  to  forget  the  wandering  and  pain, 
Half  to  remember  days  that  have  gone  by, 
And  dream  and  dream  that  I  am  home  again  ! 


181 


Areiya 


This  place  was  formed  divine  for  love  and  us  to  dwell ; 

This  house  of  brown  stone  built  for  us  to  sleep  therein  ; 
Those  blossoms  haunt  the  rocks  that  we  should  see  and 
smell; 
Those  old  rocks  break  the  hill  that  we  the  heights  should 
win. 

Those  heights  survey  the  sea  that  there  our  thoughts  should 
sail 

Up  the  steep  wall  of  wave  to  touch  the  Syrian  sky  : 
For  us  that  sky  at  eve  fades  out  of  purple  pale, 

Pale  as  the  mountain  mists  beneath  our  house  that  lie. 


In  front  of  our  small  house  are  brown  stone  arches  three  ; 

Behind  it,  the  low  porch  where  all  the  jasmine  grows  ; 
Beyond  it,  red  and  green,  the  gay  pomegranate  tree  ; 

Around  it,  like  love's  arms,  the  summer  and  the  rose. 

Within  it  sat  and  wrote  in  minutes  soft  and  few 

This  worst  and  best  of  songs,  one  who  loves  it,  and  you. 


182 


Bryan  of  Brittany 


Roses  are  golden  or  white  or  red 

And  green  or  grey  for  a  sea, 
But  the  loveliest  girl  alive,  men  said, 

Was  Bryan  of  Brittany. 

Court  or  courtier  never  a  one 

Had  Bryan  the  farmer's  lass  : 
Her  glorious  hair  was  spread  in  the  sun 

And  her  feet  were  dewed  in  the  grass. 

Evening  opened  a  flower  in  the  skies 

And  shut  the  others  asleep  : 
Home  she  came  with  the  West  in  her  eyes, 

Driving  her  silver  sheep. 

"  O  Mother,  say,  and  brothers  seven, 
What  guests  are  these  we  have 

With  beards  as  white  as  the  snow  of  heaven 
And  their  dark  faces  grave  ? 

"  But  are  they  merchants  from  the  towns 

Or  captains  from  the  sea, 
These  that  are  clothed  in  crimson  gowns, 

And  bow  to  the  earth  to  me  ?  " 
183 


"  O  kiss  me,  Bryan,  and  take  the  ring  : 

Kiss  me  good-bye,  my  daughter : 
You're  to  marry  a  crowned  king 

In  Babylon  over  the  water." 

Golden  hair  as  the  gold  of  a  rose 

Had  Bryan  of  Brittany, 
And  her  breasts  were  white  as  the  foam,  and  the  light 

Of  her  eyes  was  the  light  of  the  sea. 

"  What  shall  I  do  in  Babylon 

A  crowned  king  to  keep  ? 
I'll  not  leave  you  and  my  brother  John 

And  my  flock  of  silver  sheep." 

"  Ah,  Bryan,  bravely  spoken, 

And  bravely,  dear,  you  speak, 
Not  to  leave  me  heart-broken 

And  mother  old  and  weak." 

Said  James  the  eldest  brother, 

With  his  deep  black  eyes  ablaze, 
"  They  bring  us  gold,  0  mother, 

And  jewels  with  red  rays." 

And  John,  the  youngest  brother, 

Whose  eyes  were  bright  and  blue, 
Said,  "  Let  her  go,  my  mother  : 

I'll  bring  her  back  to  you." 

184 


"  Swear  by  Christ's  love  then,  my  son  John, 

That  when  I  feel  the  pain 
You'll  go  to  leafy  Babylon 

And  bring  her  back  again." 

"  By  Christ  upon  the  Cross  who  bled 
And  the  seventy  saints  of  Rome, 

I'll  go  there  living  or  go  there  dead, 
And  bring  my  sister  home." 


II 


It  fell  the  mother  had  not  seen 

A  second  Whitsuntide 
Since  Bryan  sailed,  a  Persian  Queen, 

When  her  seven  sons  all  died. 


"  O  false  and  faithless,  my  son  John, 

And  traitor  in  your  tomb  : 
Who  now  will  go  to  Babylon 

And  bring  me  Bryan  home  ? — 

"  Whose  hair  is  the  golden  gold  of  a  rose, 

And  red  rose  lips  has  she, 
And  her  breasts  are  as  white  as  the  foam,  and  the  light 

Of  her  eyes  is  the  light  of  the  sea." 

185 


Ill 

It  chanced  a  summer  night  so  fair, 

A  night  so  fair  and  calm, 
Bryan  was  combing  her  beautiful  hair 

In  the  moon,  beneath  a  palm. 

And  gently  sounded  through  the  skies 

Slow  bells  of  Babylon, 
When  there  came  one  with  bright  blue  eyes 

And  the  face  of  her  brother  John. 

"  Bryan,  away  from  Babylon  : 

Our  mother  weeps  to-night !  " 
"  How  tall  you  are,  my  brother  John, 

And  your  blue  eyes  how  bright  I  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  tall  enough  to  stand 

And  eyed  enough  to  see^ 
And  we'll  go  round  by  way  of  the  land 

From  here  to  Brittany." 

Days  went  on  and  the  road  went  on 
And  skies  brought  paler  skies  : — 

"  You  never  sleep,  my  brother  John, 
You  never  close  your  eyes." 

"  O  Bryan,  sister,  do  not  fear, 

And  Bryan,  do  not  weep  : 
Before  I  came  to  find  you,  dear, 

I  had  enough  of  sleep." 

186 


Days  went  on  and  the  road  went  on, 

And  stars  to  pale  or  shine  : — 
"  You  never  eat,  my  brother  John, 

Nor  drink  a  drop  of  wine." 

"  Fear  not,  dear  girl :   though  long  our  road 

So  great  a  strength  is  mine, 
For  I  have  eaten  holy  food, 

And  drunk  a  scented  wine." 

A  month  and  a  year  and  a  day  had  gone, 
They  came  to  a  sweet  country : 

0  the  silver  shades  of  the  forest  glades 
Of  Bryan's  Brittany ! 

And  the  little  birds  began  to  talk 

In  voices  faintly  human  : — 
"  Who  ever  saw  a  dead  man  walk 

Beside  a  rosy  woman  ?  " 

"  O  brother,  listen  to  the  birds 

Chattering  all  together  !  " 
"  The  talk  of  the  birds  is  feather  words 

And  lighter  than  a  feather. 

"  Open,  mother,  to  your  son  John, 
And  open  to  your  daughter : 

1  bring  you  Bryan  from  Babylon, 
From  Babylon  over  the  water. 


187 


"  And  her  hair  is  the  golden  gold  of  a  rose, 

And  her  lips  as  the  red  rose  tree, 
And  her  breasts  are  as  white  as  the  foam,  and  the  light 

Of  her  eyes  is  the  light  of  the  sea. 

"  But  I  must  back  and  over  the  hill, 

And  Bryan  must  over  the  sea, 
And  you,  old  mother,  who  sit  quite  still, 

Must  over  the  hill  with  me." 


188 


Don  Juan  Declaims 


I  am  Don  Juan,  curst  from  age  to  age 
By  priestly  tract  and  sentimental  stage  : 
Branded  a  villain  or  believed  a  fool, 
Battered  by  hatred,  seared  by  ridicule, 
Noble  on  earth,  all  but  a  king  in  Hell, 
I  am  Don  Juan  with  a  tale  to  tell. 

Hot  leapt  the  dawn  from  deep  Plutonian  fires 
And  ran  like  blood  among  the  twinkling  spires. 
The  market  quickened  :   carts  came  rattling  down  : 
Good  human  music  roared  about  the  town, 
"  And  come,"  they  cried,  "  and  buy  the  best  of  Spain's 
Great  fireskinned  fruits  with  cold  and  streaming  veins  !" 
Others,  "  The  man  who'd  make  a  lordly  dish, 
Would  buy  my  speckled  or  my  silver  fish." 
And  some,  "  I  stitch  you  raiment  to  the  rule  !  " 
And  some,  "  I  sell  you  attar  of  Stamboul !  " 
"  And  I  have  lapis  for  your  love  to  wear, 
Pearls  for  her  neck  and  amber  for  her  hair." 
Death  has  its  gleam.    They  swing  before  me  still, 
The  shapes  and  sounds  and  colours  of  Seville  ! 

For  there  I  learnt  to  love  the  plot,  the  fight, 
The  masker's  cloak,  the  ladder  set  for  flight, 

189 


The  stern  pursuit,  the  rapier's  glint  of  death, 
The  scent  of  starlit  roses,  beauty's  breath, 
The  music  and  the  passion  and  the  prize, 
Aragon  lips  and  Andalusian  eyes. 
This  day  a  democrat  I  scoured  the  town  ; 
Courting,  the  next,  I  brought  a  princess  down  : 
Now  in  some  lady's  panelled  chamber  hid 
Achieved  what  love  approves  and  laws  forbid, 
Now  walked  and  whistled  round  the  sleepy  farms 
And  clasped  a  Dulcinea  in  my  arms. 

I  was  the  true,  the  grand  idealist : 
My  light  could  pierce  the  pretty  golden  mist 
That  hides  from  common  souls  the  starrier  climes 
I  loved  as  small  men  do  ten-thousand  times  ; 
Rose  to  the  blue  triumphant,  curved  my  bow, 
Set  high  the  mark  and  brought  an  angel  low, 
And  laced  with  that  brave  body  and  shining  soul 
Learnt  how  to  live,  then  learnt  to  love  the  whole. 
And  I  first  broke  that  jungle  dark  and  dense, 
Which  hides  the  silver  house  of  Commonsense, 
And  dissipated  that  disastrous  lie 
Which  makes  a  god  of  stuffless  Unity, 
And  drave  the  dark  behind  me,  and  revealed 
A  Pagan  sunrise  on  a  Christian  field. 

My  legend  tells  how  once,  by  passion  moved, 
I  slew  the  father  of  a  girl  I  loved, 
Then  summoned — like  an  old  and  hardened  sinner- 
The  brand-new  statue  of  the  dead  to  dinner. 
My  ribald  guests,  with  Spanish  wine  aflame, 
Were  most  delighted  when  the  statue  came, 


190 


Bowed  to  the  party,  made  a  little  speech, 
And  bore  me  off  beyond  their  human  reach. 
Well,  priests  must  flourish  and  the  truth  must  pale  : 
A  very  pious,  entertaining  tale. 

But  this  believe.     I  struck  a  ringing  blow 
At  sour  Authority's  ancestral  show, 
And  stirred  the  sawdust  understufHng  all 
The  sceptred  or  the  surpliced  ritual. 
I  willed  my  happiness,  kept  bright  and  brave 
My  thoughts  and  deeds  this  side  the  accursed  grave 
Life  was  a  ten-course  banquet  after  all, 
And  neatly  rounded  by  my  funeral. 
"  Pale  guest,  why  strip  the  roses  from  your  brow  ? 
We  hope  to  feast  till  morning."  "  Who  knocks  now  ? 
"  Twelve  of  the  clock,  Don  Juan."    In  came  he, 
That  shining,  tall  and  cold  Authority, 
Whose  marble  lips  smile  down  on  lips  that  pray, 
And  took  my  hand,  and  I  was  led  away. 


191 


The  Painter  s  Mistress 


And  still  you  paint,  and  still  I  stand 
White  and  erect,  the  classic  pose, 

And  still,  a  soft-winged  bee,  your  hand 
Moves  comrade  of  a  glance  that  flows 

Over  my  body  like  love's  tide  : 

And  still  the  pale  noon-shadows  glide. 


And  still  I  hear  each  sound  that  falls, 
The  wood  that  starts  in  the  sun's  heat, 

The  mouse  astir  among  the  walls, 

While  down  the  summer-smitten  street 

A  cart  rolls  lonely  on  :    the  hush 

Tightens  :    I  hear  the  flickering  brush. 


So  with  sweet  pain  for  hour  on  hour 
I  to  your  dark  and  roving  eyes 

Abandon  more  than  Love  had  power 
To  offer,  in  Love's  mysteries  : 

You  see  me  with  the  deeper  sight, 

Veiled  in  faint  air  and  gemmed  with  light. 

192 


So  shall  the  gaze  of  the  soul-deep  lover 
Guide  where  the  sunray  darts  and  swims 

Down  from  the  shoulders  :    still  discover 
The  rose  and  iris  of  these  limbs, 

Low  flames  that  haunt  the  curve  and  fold 

And  in  dark  hollow  tresses,  gold. 


193 


In  Hospital 


Would  I  might  lie  like  this,  without  the  pain, 

For  seven  years — as  one  with  snowy  hair, 
Who  in  the  high  tower  dreams  his  dying  reign — 

Lie  here  and  watch  the  walls — how  grey  and  bare, 
The  metal  bed-post,  the  uncoloured  screen, 

The  mat,  the  jug,  the  cupboard,  and  the  chair ; 

And  served  by  an  old  woman,  calm  and  clean, 

Her  misted  face  familiar,  yet  unknown, 
Who  comes  in  silence,  and  departs  unseen, 

And  with  no  other  visit,  lie  alone, 
Nor  stir,  except  I  had  my  food  to  find 
In  that  dull  bowl  Diogenes  might  own. 

And  down  my  window  I  would  draw  the  blind, 
And  never  look  without,  but,  waiting,  hear 
A  noise  of  rain,  a  whistling  of  the  wind, 

And  only  know  that  flame-foot  Spring  is  near 
By  trilling  birds,  or  by  the  patch  of  sun 
Crouching  behind  my  curtain.     So,  in  fear, 


194 


Noon-dreams  should  enter,  softly,  one  by  one, 

And  throng  about  the  floor,  and  float  and  play 
And  flicker  on  the  screen,  while  minutes  run — 

The  last  majestic  minutes  of  the  day — 
And  with  the  mystic  shadows,  Shadow  grow. 
Then  the  grey  square  of  wall  should  fade  away, 

And  glow  again,  and  open,  and  disclose 

The  shimmering  lake  in  which  the  planets  swim, 
And  all  that  lake  a  dewdrop  on  a  rose. 


*9£ 


Taoping 


Across  the  vast  blue-shadow-sweeping  plain 

The  gathered  armies  darken  through  the  grain, 

Swinging  curved  swords  and  dragon-sculptured  spears, 

Footmen,  and  tiger-hearted  cavaliers. 

Them  Government  (whose  fragrance  Poets  sing) 

Hath  bidden  break  the  rebels  of  Taoping, 

And  fire  and  fell  the  monstrous  fort  of  fools 

Who  dream  that  men  may  dare  the  deathless  rules. 

Such,  grim  example  even  now  can  show 

Where  high  before  the  Van,  in  triple  row, 

First  fiery  blossom  of  rebellion's  tree, 

Twelve  spear-stemmed  heads  are  dripping  silently. 

(On  evil  day  you  sought,  O  ashen  lips, 

The  lass  of  women  from  our  town  of  ships, 

Nor  ever  dreamt,  O  spies,  of  falser  spies, 

The  poppied  cup  and  passion-mocking  eyes  !) 

By  these  grim  civil  trophies  undismayed, 
In  lacquered  panoplies  the  chiefs  parade. 
Behind,  the  plain's  floor  rocks  :   the  armies  come  : 
The  rose-round  lips  blow  battle  horns :   the  drum 

196 


Booms  oriental  measure.     Earth  exults. 

And  still  behind,  the  tottering  catapults 

Pulled  by  slow  slaves,  grey  backs  with  crimson  lines, 

Roll  resolutely  west.    And  still  behind, 

Down  the  canal's  hibiscus-shaded  marge 

The  glossy  mules  draw  on  the  cedar  barge, 

Railed  silver,  blue-silk-curtained,  which  within 

Bears  the  Commander,  the  old  Mandarin, 

Who  never  left  his  palace  gates  before, 

But  hath  grown  blind  reading  great  books  on  war. 


Now  level  on  the  land  and  cloudless  red 
The  sun's  slow  circle  dips  toward  the  dead. 
Night-hunted,  all  the  monstrous  flags  are  furled  : 
The  Armies  halt,  and  round  them  halts  the  World. 
A  phantom  wind  flies  out  among  the  rice  ; 
Hush  turns  the  twin  horizons  in  her  vice  ; 
Air  thickens  :  earth  is  pressed  upon  earth's  core. 
The  cedar  barge  swings  gently  to  the  shore 
Among  her  silver  shadows  and  the  swans  : 
The  blind  old  man  sets  down  his  pipe  of  bronze. 
The  long  whips  cease.     The  slaves  slacken  the  chain 
The  gaunt-towered  engines  space  the  silent  plain. 
The  hosts  like  men  held  in  a  frozen  dream 
Stiffen.     The  breastplates  drink  the  scarlet  gleam. 
But  the  Twelve  Heads  with  shining  sockets  stare 
Further  and  further  West.    Have  they  seen  there, 
Black  on  blood's  sea  and  huger  than  Death's  wing, 
Their  cannon-bowelled  fortress  of  Taoping  ? 


197 


Virgin  &neid,  Book,  VI* 


(li.  1-19) 

Tearful  he  spake  :   then  drave  the  fleet  along  : 
At  length  to  Cumae,  by  Euboeans  raised, 
They  gliding  came  :   set  prows  to  face  the  sea, 
Struck  deep  the  anchor's  stubborn  tooth,  festooned 
Its  harbour  with  the  sweep  of  curved  array. 
Then  leap  the  young  ashore  with  flashing  souls 
(Are  not  the  sands  Hesperian  ?)  :   they  strike 
Flints  for  their  veins'  hot  secret,  or  they  stray 
With  cleavesome  axe  unhoming  furry  beasts 
Or  shew  on  what  tracks  water  may  be  found. 

But  this  meanwhile  god-fearing  j5£neas 
Seeks  the  gapped  cave  where  high  Apollo  reigns 
And  his  dire  Sybil  murmurs  truth  of  doom, 
Mind  and  soul  breathed  on  by  the  god-inspired 
To  flash  out  prophecies.     They  have  come  near 
Diana's  garden  and  her  golden  fane. 

Daedalus  once,  Minoan  realms  to  flee 

*  Author's  Note. — I  have  of  course  tried  to  translate  the  sound 
of  the  thing  rather  than  the  text — cf.  my  translation  of  "  armatus," 
1.  388,  and  of  "  noctemque  profundam,"  1.  462. 

198 


— Brave  with  great  swooping  wings  to  swim  the  sky 
Steered  a  blind  journey  to  the  windy  North 
Till  his  strange  shadows  darkened  Cumae's  rock. 
He,  there  alighting,  there  to  Earth  returned, 
To  Phoebus  sacrificed  those  oars,  his  wings. 
#  *  *  # 

(11.  264-547) 

Gods  of  the  ghostly  Empire  and  ye  shades 
So  still,  Chaos  and  Phlegethon  so  still 
With  leagues  of  night  around  you,  me  empower 
Heard  tales  to  tell :  me  with  high  aid  empower 
Earth's  deep-embowelled  secret  to  betray  ! 

They  went  obscure  in  lowering  lone  night 
Through  lodges  of  King  Dis,  untenanted, — 
Featureless  lands.     Thus  goes  a  forest  pathway 
Beneath  the  curst  light  of  the  wav'ring  moon, 
When  Jove  has  gloomed  the  sky,  and  pitchy  dark 
Uncoloured  all  the  world.     In  Hell's  first  reach 
Fronting  the  very  vestibule  of  Orcus 
Griefs  and  the  Cares  have  set  their  couches  down, — 
The  vengeful  Cares.     There  pale  Diseases  dwell, 
Sad  Eld  and  Fear  and  loathsome  Poverty 
And  Hunger,  that  bad  counsellor, — dire  shapes — 
And  Death  and  Toil,  and  Sleep  brother  of  Death 
And  soul-corrupting  joys.     Opposed  he  viewed 
War  the  great  murderer,  and  those  steel  bowers 
The  Furies  deck  for  bridal,  and  Discord 
Daft,  with  blood-ribbons  on  her  serpent  hair. 

But  straight  in  front  a  huge  black  knotted  elm 


199 


Stood  branching  :  here,  they  say,  the  Vain  Dreams  roost  ;- 

There's  not  a  leaf  without  one  stuck  behind ! 

Next  he  saw  twisted  beasts  of  the  old  tales : 

Centaurs  were  stabled  at  the  gates :   Scyllas 

Spread  their  twin  shapes,  Briareus  his  hundred  arms. 

And  Lerna's  beast  behold  hissing  out  fear, 

Chimaera  too,  who  fights  with  fire,  and  Gorgons 

And  Harpies,  and  a  shade  with  a  triple  form  ! 

Such  was  the  horror  seized  ^Eneas  then 

He  made  to  meet  their  onset  with  cold  steel, 

And  had  th'  instructed  Sybil  not  advised 

That  these  were  gossamer  vitalities 

Flitting  in  stuffless  mockery  of  form, 

He'd  have  leapt  on  and  lashed  the  empty  air. 

Hence  leads  a  road  to  Acheron,  vast  flood 
Of  thick  and  restless  slime  :  all  that  foul  ooze 
It  belches  in  Cocytus.     Here  keeps  watch 
That  wild  and  filthy  pilot  of  the  marsh 
Charon,  from  whose  rugged  old  chin  trails  down 
The  hoary  beard  of  centuries  :  his  eyes 
Are  fixed,  but  flame.     His  grimy  cloak  hangs  loose 
Rough-knotted  at  the  shoulder  :  his  own  hands 
Pole  on  the  boat,  or  tend  the  sail  that  wafts 
His  dismal  skiff  and  its  fell  freight  along. 
Ah,  he  is  old,  but  with  that  toughening  eld 
That  speaks  his  godhead  !     To  the  bank  and  him 
All  a  great  multitude  came  pouring  down, 
Brothers  and  husbands,  and  the  proud-souled  heroes, 
Life's  labour  done  :  and  boys  and  unwed  maidens 
And  the  young  men  by  whose  flame-funeral 


200 


Parents  had  wept.     Many  as  leaves  that  fall 

Gently  in  autumn  when  the  sharp  cold  comes 

Or  all  the  birds  that  flock  at  the  turn  o'  the  year 

Over  the  ocean  to  the  lands  of  light. 

They  stood  and  prayed  each  one  to  be  first  taken  : 

They  stretched  their  hands  for  love  of  the  other  side, 

But  the  grim  sailor  takes  now  these,  now  those  : 

And  some  he  drives  a  distance  from  the  shore. 

./Eneas,  moved  and  marvelling  at  this  stir 

Cried — "  O  chaste  Sibyl  tell  me  why  this  throng 

That  rushes  to  the  river  ?     What  desire 

Have  all  these  phantoms  ?   and  what  rule's  award 

Drives  these  back  from  the  marge,  let  those  go  over 

Sweeping  the  livid  shallows  with  the  oar  ?  " 

The  old  priestess  replied  in  a  few  words, 

"  Son  of  Anchises  of  true  blood  divine, 

Behold  the  deep  Cocytus  and  dim  Styx 

By  whom  the  high  gods  fear  to  swear  in  vain. 

This  shiftless  crowd  all  is  unsepulchred  : 

The  boatman  there  is  Charon  :   those  who  embark 

The  buried.     None  may  leave  this  beach  of  horror 

To  cross  the  growling  stream  before  that  hour 

That  hides  their  white  bones  in  a  quiet  tomb. 

A  hundred  years  they  flutter  round  these  shores  : 

Then  they  may  cross  the  waters  long  desired." 

Mneas  stopped  and  stood  there  heavily 
Thoughtful  and  sad  for  this  unfair  decree. 
Wretched  for  lack  of  sepulchre  he  saw 
Leucaspis  and  the  Lycian  convoy's  chief 
Orontes.     They  left  Troy  with  rough  sea 


20 1 


And  lost  their  ships  and  crew  to  the  south-west  wind. 

There  too  did  roam  the  pilot  Palinurus, 
Who  steering  up  from  Libya  by  the  stars 
Had  fallen  from  the  stern  a  few  days  since 
Deep  in  the  wave.     So  girt  with  gloom  stood  he 
The  hero  scarce  could  see — but  seeing,  he  cried  : — 
"  Thee,  Palinurus,  what  relentless  god 
Tore  from  our  love  to  drown  thee  in  mid  main  ? 
Say,  for  Apollo  never  yet  found  false 
Deceived  me  here,  in  mystic  song  foretelling 
That  safe  across  the  waters  thou  shouldst  come 
To  tread  Italian  soil.     Is  this  kept  promise  ?  " 
But  he  : — "  Captain,  the  Tripod  sang  no  lies 
Nor  was't  a  god  that  flung  me  to  the  waves, 
But  whilst  I  steered,  the  chance  of  a  sharp  shock 
So  wrenched  the  gear  entrusted  to  my  hands 
That  clinging  fast  I  was  swept  overboard 
Tiller  and  all.     Witness,  O  passionate  waves, 
Less  did  I  fear  my  peril  than  the  ship's 
Which  now  dismantled  and  its  pilot  gone 
Rode  at  the  mercy  of  the  bristling  swell. 
Three  winter  nights  across  the  infinite  sea 
The  strong  South  bore  me,  piling  up  the  waves  ; 
But  the  fourth  morning  from  a  billow's  crest 
I  saw  the  cliffs  of  Italy  and  swam 
Landwards  slowly.     For  now  was  danger  past 
Had  not  a  cruel  folk  come  on  with  swords, 
As  weighted  by  my  dripping  clothes  I  clutched 
A  broken  rock's  summit  with  crooked  hand, 
And  deemed  me — brutes — a  prize.     Sport  of  the  waves 


202 


Is  Palinurus  now,  and  the  winds  whirl  him 
All  up  and  down  the  shore.     By  the  kind  light 
And  spacious  air  I  pray  thee  :   by  thy  Sire 
And  young  lulus  growing  fair  and  tall 
Defeat  my  woes,  unconquerable  man  ! 
Either  cast  earth  upon  me — as  thou  mayst 
To  Veline  harbour  steering,  or  maybe 
If  there's  a  way — thy  mother  was  divine 
And  much  it  needeth  the  god's  help  to  float 
On  such  grand  rivers  and  the  Stygian  mere- 
Hold  out  thy  hand  to  one  who  is  in  sorrow, 
Bear  me  across  the  wave  !     So  shall  I  know 
At  least  of  Death  the  quiet  and  the  home." 
He  spake  :   the  Sibyl  answered  :   "  Palinurus 
What  dread  desire  is  thine  ?     Wouldst  thou  attempt, 
Unburied,  waves  of  Styx  and  that  stern  stream 
The  Furies  haunt  ?     Wouldst  thou  approach  that  shore 
And  have  no  mandate  ?     Dost  thou  hope  to  melt 
Fate  with  a  prayer  ?     But  listen  and  take  heart 
For  all  the  people  of  the  cities  round 
Driven  forth  by  omens  dire  from  the  high  heaven 
Shall  honour  thy  remains  and  raise  a  tomb 
And  on  thy  tomb  shall  all  due  rites  perform 
And  all  that  place  for  evermore  shall  keep 
The  name  of  Palinurus."     As  she  spake 
His  trouble  ceased  :   a  while  from  his  sad  heart 
Grief  flies.     He  is  glad  the  land  should  bear  his  name. 

Set  path  pursuing  they  approached  the  stream 
Whom  soon  the  sailor  of  the  Stygian  wave 
Saw  pass  the  silent  wood  and  seek  the  marge 


203 


And  hailed  censorious  : — "  Thou  who  walkest  down 

Clashing  thy  armour  by  our  streams  of  Hell, 

Speak  thy  intent :  there  on  thy  road  stand  still ! 

Here  lies  the  land  of  shadow  dream  and  night, 

And  no  warm  flesh  may  ride  on  Stygian  keel. 

Small  joy  had  I  admitting  to  this  mere 

Hercules  or  those  victor  sons  of  Heaven 

Peirithoos  and  Theseus.     Hercules 

Chained  with  bare  hands  the  dog  of  Tartarus 

And  dragged  him  from  the  throne  quaking  :  they  came 

To  rape  our  mistress  from  the  bed  of  Dis." 

"  We  spin  no  snares,"  the  Amphrysian  sharp  replied  : 

"  Be  soothed,  no  violence  these  arms  portend. 

Let  the  huge  Janitor's  eternal  cry 

Still  from  his  cave  confound  the  bloodless  ghosts, 

And  Proserpine  unravished  still  attend 

Her  kinsman's  threshold.     yEneas  of  Troy, 

Famed  dutiful  and  fearless,  here  descends 

To  embrace  his  father  in  your  pits  of  gloom. 

If  high  devotion  spells  thee  nought,  this  bough 

(She  drew  it  from  her  breast)  may  move  thee  still." 

Calm  sank  the  heart  but  now  swoln  out  with  rage  : 
With  no  word  more,  eyeing  that  ancient  bough, 
Doom's  symbol,  after  ages  seen  again, 
Turned  he  his  caerule  prow  and  made  the  shore. 
Thence  other  souls  who  sat  along  the  dunes 
He  drave,  and  let  his  gangway  down,  and  took 
The  huge  ^Eneas  in  his  patched  punt, 
Which  groaned  o'ercargoed  ;   and  through  many  a  crack 
Oozed  up  the  mere  :   yet  safe  across  the  stream 


204 


Sybil  and  soldier  did  he  row,  and  beached 
On  the  green  formless  slime  of  the  other  side. 

Cerberus  here  sends  ringing  through  his  realm 
A  triple-throated  howling,  couched,  immune, 
With  cavern  for  a  kennel.     The  Priestess, 
Seeing  his  dragon  necks  stiffen  to  strike, 
A  cake  of  honey  and  bemusing  herbs 
Tossed  him.     Three  maws  the  ravening  monster  spread, 
Snapped  it  in  air,  and  all  his  hugesome  bulk 
Uncoiled  and  sprawled  and  stretched  across  the  cave. 
JEneas  down  the  brute-unwardened  path 
Quick  pace  pursues.     Behind  him  lies  the  stream 
Whose  waves  whisper  no  whisper  of  return. 

Now  cries  are  heard,  and  thin  abundant  wind  : 
All  down  Hell's  forecourt  weep  the  Infant  Souls, 
Whom  shareless  of  life's  shining  dower,  Doom 
Tore  from  the  breast  and  whelmed  in  Death's  sharp  wave, 
Near,  men  judged  out  of  life  by  false  decree. 
They  .have  their  urn,  their  Umpire,  these  abodes  : 
'Tis  Minos  draws  the  lots,  he  who  may  call 
The  council  of  the  silent :  he  who  reads, 
Grand  arbiter,  the  histories  of  men. 
And  next  them  flit  the  Sad  Ones  who  prepared 
With  their  rash  hands  their  own  extinction's  cup 
And  flung  their  souls  on  dark  to  spite  the  day. 
Ah  could  they,  could  they  back  to  the  bright  sky 
What  years  would  they  not  bear  of  toil  or  pain  ! 
Law  bars  them  fast :  the  mere's  grim  loveless  wave 
Bounds  their  domain  :  Styx  nine  times  interfused 
Imprisons.    Here  the  Broken-hearted  Fields 


205 


Roll  out  to  the  horizon.     Such  their  name. 

Here  those  whom  Love  remorseless  and  unkind 

Devoured  by  dissolution,  walk  in  peace 

Down  secret  byways  of  a  myrtle  forest. 

Here  Phaedra,  Procris  and  sad  Eriphyle 

He  saw,  whom  her  fierce  son  had  wounded  sore, 

Pasiphae,  Evadne  :  in  their  train 

Laodamia,  and  that  once  a  boy 

Now  woman,  Caeneus,  thus  reshaped  by  doom. 

Among  them  one  love-pierced  not  long  ago, — 

Dido  of  Carthage  roamed  the  tall  grove  through 

Whom  when  Troy's  hero  drawing  near  beheld 

Gliding  through  murk  and  shadow,  as  one  sees 

Or  dreams  to  see  through  clouds  the  thin  new  moon, 

He  wept,  calling  her  with  a  lover's  cry  : — 

"  Dido  ill-starred,  but  was  it  truth  they  told  me, 

Thy  fate — the  self-sought  ending  by  the  sword  ? 

To  death  I  brought  thee.     O  by  the  stars  I  swear 

By  the  high  gods  and  by  all  faith  that  holds 

In  Earth's  black  core,  unwilling,  O  my  queen, 

Sailed  I  away  from  Carthage.     But  the  gods 

They  who  now  send  me  through  this  shadow  world, 

These  lands  so  far,  this  oceanic  night, 

Drave  me  with  uncharitable  command 

Nor  could  I  dream  sorrow  as  sharp  as  that 

Should  wait  on  my  departure.     But  stay,  stay  ! 

I  do  not  pass  so  soon  :  whom  dost  thou  flee  ? 

Fate  grants  me  thus  to  hail  thee  the  last  time  !  " 

So  tried  iEneas  through  his  tears  to  assuage 

That  shy  wild  spirit  glancing  round  in  fear  : 

206 


But  she  looked  down,  turning  her  face  aside, 

A  face  as  unresponsive  to  appeal 

As  a  hard  flint  or  a  high  marble  mountain. 

Then  darting  back,  down  the  dark  grove  she  flies 

Unfriendly,  where  Sichaeus,  her  old  spouse, 

His  gentleness  love's  proxy,  tends  her  still. 

iEneas,  victim  of  a  chance  unfair 

Still  follows,  weeps,  and  pities  as  she  flies. 

But  now,  their  journey's  settled  path  pursuing, 
On  to  the  ultimate  secret  fields  they  move, 
Where  walk  the  mighty  Captains.     Tydeus  here 
He  saw,  and  Parthenopaeus,  warrior  bold, 
And  one  that  seemed  Adrastus,  and  so  pale, 
And  all  the  war-mown  Trojans,  for  whose  fate 
Such  tears  had  been  shed  in  the  face  of  heaven. 
Rank  upon  rank  he,  sorrowful,  saw  them, — 
Glaucus  and  Medon  and  Thersilochus, 
Antenor's  son  and  Polyphcetes,  vowed 
Demeter's,  and  still  armed,  still  charioted 
Idasus.     Right  and  left  the  Spirits  crowd 
To  their  eyes'  festival,  to  dally  pleased, 
Or  step  beside,  or  ask  him  all  his  tale. 
But  when  the  Danaan  phalanx  and  great  hosts 
Of  Agamemnon  saw  a  Man  and  Arms 
That  flashed  among  the  shadows,  terrible  fear 
Set  them  aquiver  :  as  to  the  ships  of  old 
Some  turned  to  flee  :  some  raised  a  little  cry, 
So  thin  its  echoes  mocked  their  gaping  mouths. 

Here  saw  he  Priam's  son,  Deiphobus, 
With  all  his  body  rent,  all  his  face  torn 


207 


And  both  his  hands,  and  ravaged  earless  head, 

And  cut  nostrils — dishonourable  wounds. 

Yet  could  he  recognize  the  quaking  ghost 

That  strove  to  veil  the  horror  of  its  face 

And  called  him  in  the  voice  he  could  well  know  : — 

"  Deiphobus,  Hero  of  old  Trojan  blood, 

Who  willed  you  this  vile  punishment  ?     To  whom 

Was  power  against  you  given.     Rumour  told  me 

On  that  last  night  how  on  a  tower  of  dead, 

Weary  with  slaughter  of  the  Greeks,  you  lay 

Prone.     It  was  I  then  raised  on  Rhaetian  shore 

The  empty  mound  and  thrice  with  a  loud  cry 

Summoned  thy  wraith.     Arms  and  a  name  preserve 

That  place — but  thee,  dear  friend,  I  could  not  find 

To  bury  e'er  I  left  my  native  land." 

But  Priam's  son  : — "  Friend,  what  couldst  thou  do  more  ? 

Thou  hast  paid  every  due  to  death  and  me. 

But  me  my  destiny  true  the  sin 

Of  that  She-murderess  of  Spartan  brood 

Whelmed  in  these  woes  :  these  are  her  monuments. 

How  in  deceitful  pleasure  that  last  night 

We  spent,  well  dost  thou  know,  too  well  must  know,—: 

When  with  a  leap  o'er  steep-stoned  Pergamon 

Pregnant  with  soldiery,  the  fatal  horse 

Its  bristling  burden  flung.     She,  she  it  was 

With  traitor  dance  led  round  our  Phrygian  dames 

The  wild  Evoe  proclaiming  !     A  huge  torch 

She  shook  above  the  revel,  which  did  call 

The  Danaans  from  Troy  Tower.     I  heavily 

Slept  the  meanwhile  on  couch  of  doom,  and  me 

208 


Deep  honied  quiet,  miming  Death's  own  peace, 
Thralled.     And  my  dear  spouse,  busy  all  the  while, 
Strips  the  house  bare  of  arms  :  and  my  good  sword 's 
No  longer  at  my  pillow.     '  Ready  now  ! 
In  Menelaus  !     Every  door's  ajar  ! ' 
This  was  her  great  gift  to  her  old  lover, 
And  this  her  scheme  for  hushing  up  old  tales  ! 
Quick  to  the  end  now  !     They  break  in  my  door, 
With  them  Ulysses,  Crime's  High  Advocate. 
Gods,  load  this  on  the  Greeks, — if  the  good  man 
Who  cries  down  vengeance  be  a  good  man  still ! 
But  thee  alive  what  hap — tell  in  thy  turn — 
Brought  here  ?     Dost  come  a  plaything  of  the  wave 
By  traveller's  chance  ?     Or  at  the  hest  divine  ? 
What  fate's  oppression  draws  thee  to  these  homes 
Where  no  sun  shines  nor  any  view  stands  clear  ?  " 
But  while  they  talked,  across  the  pole  of  heaven 
Had  swept  the  Charioteer  who  drives  from  Dawn, 
And  dalliance  had  soon  eaten  up  the  dole 
Of  time  allotted  :  so  the  Sybil  warned — 
"  Down  comes  the  night,  iEneas  :  all  too  fast 
We  weep  the  hours  away.     Here  splits  the  road, 
Right,  to  the  foot  of  the  big  walls  of  Dis, 
But  the  left  leads  the  damned  to  their  deserts 
In  impious  Tartary."     "  But  chide  no  more," 
Replied  Deiphobus  :   "  I  will  return  : 
My  place  is  in  the  roll-call  of  the  Dead, 
Go,  Splendour  of  our  Story  :  grace  be  thine 
Beyond  our  measure."    And  he  turned  away. 

1914 
209 


The  Dying  Patriot 


Day  breaks  on  England  down  the  Kentish  hills, 

Singing  in  the  silence  of  the  meadow-footing  rills, 

Day  of  my  dreams,  O  day  ! 

I  saw  them  march  from  Dover,  long  ago, 
With  a  silver  cross  before  them,  singing  low, 

Monks  of  Rome  from  their  home  where  the  blue  seas  break 
in  foam, 
Augustine  with  his  feet  of  snow. 


Noon  strikes  on  England,  noon  on  Oxford  town, 

— Beauty  she  was  statue  cold — there's  blood  upon  her  gown  : 

Noon  of  my  dreams,  O  noon  ! 

Proud  and  godly  kings  had  built  her,  long  ago, 
With  her  towers  and  tombs  and  statues  all  arow, 

With  her  fair  and  floral  air  and  the  love  that  lingers  there, 
And  the  streets  where  the  great  men  go. 


Evening  on  the  olden,  the  golden  sea  of  Wales, 
When  the  first  star  shivers  and  the  last  wave  pales 
O  evening  dreams ! 


2IO 


There's  a  house  that  Britons  walked  in,  long  ago, 
Where  now  the  springs  of  ocean  fall  and  flow, 
And  the  dead  robed  in  red  and  sea-lilies  overhead 
Sway  when  the  long  winds  blow. 


Sleep  not,  my  country  :   though  night  is  here,  afar 
Your  children  of  the  morning  are  clamorous  for  war  : 
Fire  in  the  night,  O  dreams  ! 

Though  she  send  you  as  she  sent  you,  long  ago, 
South  to  desert,  east  to  ocean,  west  to  snow, 
West  of  these  out  to  seas  colder  than    the   Hebrides 
I  must  go 
Where  the  fleet  of  stars  is  anchored  and  the  young 
Star-captains  glow. 


211 


A  Sacred  Dialogue 

(Christmas  191 2) 

The  silver  Bishop  of  Bethlehem, 

A  desolate  Turkish  town, 
Speaks  with  a  shape  each  Christmas  day 

That  floats  to  music  down. 

The  Bishop  of  Bethlehem 

Peace  and  goodwill,  Son  of  the  King ! 
Thy  Birthday  and  Thy  Star  ! 

Christ 

Peace  and  goodwill  the  world  may  sing  : 
But  we  shall  talk  of  war  ! 

How  fare  my  armies  of  the  North  ? 

212 


The  Bishop 

They  wait  victorious  peace, 
All  the  high  forts  of  Macedon 
Fly  the  proud  flag  of  Greece. 


Christ 

Then  surely  on  that  Eastern  dome 

The  Allies'  cross  is  gleaming, 
Redeemed  my  loved  and  ancient  home  !  * 

The  Bishop 
Ah,  it  still  waits  redeeming  ! 

Christ 

Still  waits — Five  hundred  years,  and  still 
My  soldiers  wait — so  long  ? 

The  Bishop 

Thou  hast  Fate's  sceptre.     What  thy  will 
Dooms  could  split  earth,  thou  Strong  ! 

*  St.  Sophia. 
213 


Christ 

My  nations  are  steel  towers  built  tall, 

Shepherd  of  Bethlehem, 
Tell  none  this  Moslem  cracked  stone  wall 

Is  more  than  jest  for  them  ? 


Yet  Islam  oft  would  strip  and  slay 
Christian  woman  and  child, 

And  Europe  feast  that  Christmas  day 
A  coward  reconciled. 


Yet  some  day  o'er  Pamphylian  waves 
Shall  Byzant  chants  be  ringing, 

And  rose-crowned  hermits  leave  their  caves 
And  sail  to  Patmos  singing  ; 


Some  day  Nicea's  pool  again 

Shall  bear  the  creed  of  the  World, 

And  that  day  crashing  from  my  fane 
Shall  that  horned  moon  be  hurled. 


Then  some  deep-faithed  Priest  will  shout 

"  Oh,  cease  ye  bells  forlorn, 
We  have  forgotten  Jerusalem 

And  the  land  where  He  was  born  !  " 

214 


Then  the  black  cannons  of  the  Lord 

Shall  wake  crusading  ghosts 
And  the  Milky  Way  shall  swing  like  a  sword 
When  Jerusalem  vomits  its  horde 
On  the  Christmas  day  preferred  of  the  Lord, 

The  Christmas  day  of  the  Hosts  ! 


Note  by  the  Author. — Originally  written  for  Christmas 
191 2,  and  referring  to  the  first  Balkan  War,  this  poem 
contains  in  the  last  speech  of  Christ  words  that  ring  like 
a  prophecy  of  events  that  may  occur  very  soon. 

December  1914 


215 


The  Old  Ships 


I  have  seen  old  ships  sail  like  swans  asleep 
Beyond  the  village  which  men  still  call  Tyre, 
With  leaden  age  o'ercargoed,  dipping  deep 
For  Famagusta  and  the  hidden  sun 
That  rings  black  Cyprus  with  a  lake  of  fire  ; 
And  all  those  ships  were  certainly  so  old 
Who  knows  how  oft  with  squat  and  noisy  gun, 
Questing  brown  slaves  or  Syrian  oranges, 
The  pirate  Genoese 
Hell-raked  them  till  they  rolled 
Blood,  water,  fruit  and  corpses  up  the  hold. 
But  now  through  friendly  seas  they  softly  run, 
Painted  the  mid-sea  blue  or  shore-sea  green, 
Still  patterned  with  the  vine  and  grapes  in  gold. 


But  I  have  seen, 

Pointing  her  shapely  shadows  from  the  dawn 
And  image  tumbled  on  a  rose-swept  bay, 
A  drowsy  ship  of  some  yet  older  day ; 
And,  wonder's  breath  indrawn, 


216 


Thought  I — who  knows — who  knows — but  in  that  same 

(Fished  up  beyond  iEsea,  patched  up  new 

— Stern  painted  brighter  blue — ) 

That  talkative,  bald-headed  seaman  came 

(Twelve  patient  comrades  sweating  at  the  oar) 

From  Troy's  doom-crimson  shore, 

And  with  great  lies  about  his  wooden  horse 

Set  the  crew  laughing,  and  forgot  his  course. 


It  was  so  old  a  ship — who  knows,  who  knows  ? 
— And  yet  so  beautiful,  I  watched  in  vain 
To  see  the  mast  burst  open  with  a  rose, 
And  the  whole  deck  put  on  its  leaves  again. 


217 


The  Blue  Noon 


When  the  whole  sky  is  vestured  silken  blue 
With  not  one  fleece  to  view, 
Drown  your  deep  eyes  afar,  and  see  you  must 
How  the  light  azure  dust 
And  speckled  atoms  of  the  polished  skies 
Are  large  blue  butterflies. 
The  proof  ?     Lie  in  a  field  on  heavy  noons, 
When  Nature  drones  and  croons 
And  on  man's  distant  cry  or  dog's  far  bark 
Hush  sets  the  instant  mark, 
Look  up  :  when  nothing  earthly  stirs  or  sings 
You  hear  them  wave  their  wings, 
And  watch  the  breeze  their  vanity  awakes 
Light  on  the  heavenly  lakes. 
But  when  the  shades  before  the  sun's  huge  fall 
In  sham  retreat  grow  tall, 
Their  ambushed  allies,  the  impatient  stars, 
Make  ready  for  bright  wars, 
And  shoot  ten  million  arrows  to  chastise 
The  tardy  butterflies 

Who  dive  in  hosts  toward  the  diving  sphere 
That  holds  the  light's  frontier, 
And  the  poor  vanquished,  turning  as  they  glide, 
Show  their  gold  underside. 
218 


A  Fragment 


O  pouring  westering  streams 
Shouting  that  I  have  leapt  the  mountain  bar, 
Down  curve  on  curve  my  journey's  white  way  gleams- 
My  road  along  the  river  of  return. 


I  know  the  countries  where  the  white  moons  burn, 

And  heavy  star  on  star 

Dips  on  the  pale  and  crystal  desert  hills. 

I  know  the  river  of  the  sun  that  fills 

With  founts  of  gold  the  lakes  of  Orient  sky. 


And  I  have  heard  a  voice  of  broken  seas 

And  from  the  cliffs  a  cry. 

Ah  still  they  learn,  those  cave-eared  Cyclades, 

The  Triton's  friendly  or  his  fearful  horn 

And  why  the  deep  sea-bells  but  seldom  chime, 

And  how  those  waves  and  with  what  spell-swept  rhyme 

In  years  of  morning,  on  a  summer's  morn 


219 


Whispering  round  his  castle  on  the  coast, 
Lured  young  Achilles  from  his  haunted  sleep 
And  drave  him  out  to  dive  beyond  those  deep 
Dim  purple  windows  of  the  empty  swell, 
His  ivory  body  flitting  like  a  ghost 
Over  the  holes  where  flat  blind  fishes  dwell, 
All  to  embrace  his  mother  throned  in  her  shell. 


220 


Narcissus 


0  pool  in  which  we  dallied 

And  splashed  the  prostrate  Noon  ! 
O  Water-boy,  more  pallid 

Than  any  watery  moon  ! 
O  Lilies  round  him  turning ! 

O  broken  Lilies,  strewn  ! 
O  silver  Lutes  of  Morning  ! 

O  Red  of  the  Drums  of  Noon  ! 

0  dusky-plumaged  sorrow ! 

0  ebon  Swans  of  Care — 

1  sought  thee  on  the  Morrow, 
And  never  found  thee  there  ! 

I  breathed  the  vapour-blended 

Cloud  of  a  dim  despair  : 
White  lily,  is  it  ended  ? 

Gold  lily — oh,  golden  hair  ! 

The  pool  that  was  thy  dwelling 

1  hardly  knew  again, 

So  black  it  was,  and  swelling 
With  bitter  wind  and  rain. 

221 


'Mid  the  bowed  leaves  I  lingered, 
Lashed  by  the  blast  of  Pain, 

Till  evening,  storm-rose-fingered, 
Beckoned  to  night  again. 

There  burst  a  flood  of  Quiet 

Over  the  unstelled  skies  ; 
Full  moon  flashed  out  a-riot : 

Near  her  I  dreamt  thine  eyes 
Afloat  with  night,  still  trembling 

With  captured  mysteries : 
But  sulphured  wracks,  assembling, 

Redarkened  the  bright  skies. 

Ah,  thou  at  least  art  lying 

Safe  at  the  white  nymph's  feet, 
Listless,  while  I,  slow-dying, 

Twist  my  gaunt  limbs  for  heat ! 
Yet  I'll  to  Earth,  my  Mother  : 

So,  boy,  I'll  still  entreat 
Forgive  me — for  none  other 

Like  Earth  is  honey-sweet ! 

{See  former  version,  'page  30) 


222 


Stillness 


When  the  words  rustle  no  more, 

And  the  last  work's  done, 
When  the  bolt  lies  deep  in  the  door, 

And  Fire,  our  Sun, 
Falls  on  the  dark-laned  meadows  of  the  floor ; 

When  from  the  clock's  last  chime  to  the  next  chime 

Silence  beats  his  drum, 
And  Space  with  gaunt  grey  eyes  and  her  brother  Time 

Wheeling  and  whispering  come, 
She  with  the  mould  of  form  and  he  with  the  loom  of 
rhyme : 

Then  twittering  out  in  the  night  my  thought-birds  flee, 

I  am  emptied  of  all  my  dreams  : 
I  only  hear  Earth  turning,  only  see 

Ether's  long  bankless  streams, 
And  only  know  I  should  drown  if  you  laid  not  your 
hand  on  me. 


223 


The  Pensive  Prisoner 


My  thoughts  came  drifting  down  the  Prison  where  I  lay — 
Through   the   Windows   of   their   Wings   the   stars   were 

shining — 
The  wings  bore  me  away — the  russet  Wings  and  grey 
With  feathers  like  the  moon-bleached  Flowers — I  was  a 

God  reclining : 
Beneath  me  lay  my  Body's  Chain  and  all  the  Dragons  born 

of  Pain 
As  I  burned  through  the  Prison  Roof  to  walk  on  Pavement 

Shining. 

The  Wild  Wind  of  Liberty  swept  through  my  Hair  and  sang 

beyond : 
I  heard  the  Souls  of  men  asleep  chattering  in  the  Eaves 
And  rode   on   topmost   Boughs  of  Heaven's  single-moon- 
fruited  Silver  Wand, 
Night's  unifying  Tree  whereof  the  central  Stars  be  leaves — 
O  Thoughts,  Thoughts,  Thoughts, — Fire-angel-birds  relent- 
less— 
Will  you  not  brood  in  God's  Star-tree  and  leave  Red  Heart 
tormentless ! 


224 


Hexameters 


O  happy  Dome  so  lightly  swimming  through  storm-riven 

iEther, 
Blue  burning  and  gold,  the  hollow  of  Chaos  adorning. 
Shine,  happy  Dome  of  th'  air,  on  Sea  thy  sister,  on  ancient 
Plains,  on  sharp  snowbeard  mountains,  on  silvery  waters, 
On  knotted  eld-mossed  trees,  on  roses  starry  with  April — 
But  most  shine  upon  one  lying  tormented,  a  dreamer, 
Thy  lover.     Ah  wherefore  did  a  rift  so  cruel  across  thee 
Open  ?     A  long  tremulous  sighing  comes  thence,  with  a 

great  wind, 
Darkness  ever  blowing  round  thy  blue  curtain.     A  finger 
Out  of  Hell  aims  at  me.     Gather,  O  sweet  Dome  o'  the 

Morning, 
Thy  rapid  ardent  flamy  quiver,  thy  splintery  clusters  : 
Send  a  volley  straight  through  to  the  heart  of  this  desolation, 
And  burning,  blasting  with  a  shaft  of  thunderous  azure, 
Break  the  ebon  soldiers,  restore  his  realm  to  the  dreamer  ! 


225 


Philomel 

(From  the  French  of  Paul  Fort) 

O  sing,  in  heart  of  silence  hiding  near, 
Thou  whom  the  roses  bend  their  heads  to  hear ! 
In  silence  down  the  moonlight  slides  her  wing  : 
Will  no  rose  breathe  while  Philomel  doth  sing  ? 
No  breath — and  deeper  yet  the  perfume  grows  : 
The  voice  of  Philomel  can  slay  a  rose  : 
The  song  of  Philomel  on  nights  serene 
Implores  the  gods  who  roam  in  shades  unseen, 
But  never  calls  the  roses,  whose  perfume 
Deepens  and  deepens,  as  they  wait  their  doom. 
Is  it  not  silence  whose  great  bosom  heaves  ? 
Listen,  a  rose-tree  drops  her  quiet  leaves. 


Now  silence  flashes  lightning  like  a  storm  : 
Now  silence  is  a  cloud,  and  cradled  warm 
By  risings  and  by  fallings  of  the  tune 
That  Philomel  doth  sing,  as  shines  the  moon, 
— A  bird's  or  some  immortal  voice  from  Hell  ? 
There  is  no  breath  to  die  with,  Philomel ! 

226 


And  yet  the  world  has  changed  without  a  breath. 
The  moon  lies  heavy  on  the  roses'  death, 
And  every  rosebush  droops  its  leafy  crown. 
A  gust  of  roses  has  gone  sweeping  down. 


The  panicked  garden  drives  her  leaves  about : 
The  moon  is  masked  :  it  flares  and  flickers  out. 
O  shivering  petals  on  your  lawn  of  fear, 
Turn  down  to  Earth  and  hear  what  you  shall  hear. 
A  beat,  a  beat,  a  beat  beneath  the  ground, 
And  hurrying  beats,  and  one  great  beat  profound. 
A  heart  is  coming  close  :   I  have  heard  pass 
The  noise  of  a  great  Heart  upon  the  grass. 
The  petals  reel.     Earth  opens  :   from  beneath 
The  ashen  roses  on  their  lawn  of  death, 
Raising  her  peaceful  brow,  the  grand  and  pale 
Demeter  listens  to  the  nightingale. 


227 


From  Jean  Mor'eas   "  Stances  ' 


The  garden  rose  I  paid  no  honour  to, 
So  humbly  poised  and  fashioned  on  its  spray, 
Has  now  by  wind  unkissed,  undrenched  by  dew, 
Lived  captive  in  her  vase  beyond  a  day. 


And  tired  and  pale,  bereft  of  earth  and  sun, 
Her  blossom  over  and  her  hour  of  pride, 
She  has  dropped  all  her  petals,  one  by  one, 
Unmindful  if  she  lived  or  how  she  died. 


When  doom  is  passing  in  her  dusky  glade 
Let  us  learn  silence.     In  this  evening  hour, 
O  heart  bowed  down  with  mystery  and  shade, 
Too  heavy  lies  the  spectre  of  a  flower  ! 


228 


The  Princess 

{A  Story  from  the  Modern  Greek) 

A  Princess  armed  a  privateer  to  sail  the  Chersonese 
And  fitted  it  with  purple  sails  to  belly  in  the  breeze, 
With  golden  cords  and  oaken  boards  and  a  name  writ 

out  in  pearls, 
And  all  the  jolly  mariners  were  gallant  little  girls. 

The  King's  Son  he  came  hunting  her  in  frigates  two  or  three, 
"  Give  me  one  kiss,  Princess,"  he  cried,  "  and  take  a  ship 

from  me ; 
And  would  you  like  the  yellow  boat  or  would  you  like  the 

red, 
Or  would  you  take  myself  and  mine,  the  gold  and  green 

instead  ?  " 

"  Sir,  handsome  fellow  as  you  are,  it's  curious,  you  know, 

To  ask  a  maid  for  kisses  in  mid-archipelago  : 

But  come  and  fight  with  us,  young  man ;    the  prize  is  for 

the  brave." 
They  fought :    it  chanced  the  lady  won  and  took  him  for 

a  slave. 


229 


She  drave  him  to  the  yellow  boat  and  lashed  him  to  the  oar. 
"  Now  pull,  my  handsome  Prince,"  said  she,  "till  you  can 

pull  no  more." 
"  O  Princess,  do  but  listen  to  a  valiant  boy's  appeal, 
And  take  me  from  this  bitter  oar,  and  put  me  at  the  wheel." 

"  O  foolish  Prince,"  she  answered  him ;    "  back  to  your 

oar  and  pull. 
Row  hard  and  soon  we'll  anchor  in  the  gulf  of  Istamboul. 
While  the  slaves  collect  provisions  and  the  sailors  go  for 

drink 
You  may  chance  to  find  your  Captain  not  so  brutal  as  you 

think !  " 


230 


Pannyra  of  the  Golden  Heel 

{From  Albert  Samain) 


The  revel  pauses  and  the  room  is  still : 
The  silver  flute  invites  her  with  a  trill, 
And,  buried  in  her  great  veils  fold  on  fold, 
Rises  to  dance  Pannyra,  Heel  of  Gold. 
Her  light  steps  cross  ;  her  subtle  arm  impels 
The  clinging  drapery ;   it  shrinks  and  swells, 
Hollows  and  floats,  and  bursts  into  a  whirl : 
She  is  a  flower,  a  moth,  a  flaming  girl. 
All  lips  are  silent ;  eyes  are  all  in  trance  : 
She  slowly  wakes  the  madness  of  the  dance, 
Windy  and  wild  the  golden  torches  burn  ; 
She  turns,  and  swifter  yet  she  tries  to  turn, 
Then  stops  :  a  sudden  marble  stiff  she  stands. 
The  veil  that  round  her  coiled  its  spiral  bands, 
Checked  in  its  course,  brings  all  its  folds  to  rest, 
And  clinging  to  bright  limb  and  pointed  breast 
Shows,  as  beneath  silk  waters  woven  fine, 
Pannyra  naked  in  a  flash  divine  ! 


231 


The  Gate  of  the  Armies 

{From  Henri  de  Regnier) 

Swing  out  thy  doors,  high  gate  that  dreadst  not  night, 

Bronze  to  the  left  and  iron  to  the  right. 

Deep  in  a  cistern  has  been  flung  thy  key  ; 

If  dread  thee  close,  anathema  on  thee  ; 

And  like  twin  shears  let  thy  twin  portals  cut 

The  hand's  fist  through  that  would  thee  falsely  shut 

Again  thy  dusky  vault  hath  heard  resound 

Steps  of  strong  men  who  never  yet  gave  ground, 

Marching  with  whom  came  breathless  and  came  bold 

Victory  naked  with  broad  wings  of  gold. 

Her  glaive  to  guide  them  calmly  soars  and  dips  ; 

Her  kiss  is  lifeblood's  purple  on  their  lips. 

From  rose-round  mouths  the  clarions  shake  and  shrill, 

A  brazen  boom  of  bees  that  hunt  to  kill. 

"  Drink,  swarm  of  war,  stream  from  your  plated  hives 

And  cull  death's  dust  on  flowery-fleshed  fierce  lives, 

So,  when  back  home  to  native  town  ye  march, 

Beneath  those  golden  wings  and  my  black  arch 

May  all  men  watch  my  pavement,  as  each  pace 

Of  your  red  feet  leaves  clear  its  sanguine  trace." 


232 


November  Eves 


November  Evenings !     Damp  and  still 
They  used  to  cloak  Leckhampton  hill, 
And  lie  down  close  on  the  grey  plain, 
And  dim  the  dripping  window-pane, 
And  send  queer  winds  like  Harlequins 
That  seized  our  elms  for  violins 
And  struck  a  note  so  sharp  and  low 
Even  a  child  could  feel  the  woe. 

Now  fire  chased  shadow  round  the  room  ; 
Tables  and  chairs  grew  vast  in  gloom  : 
We  crept  about  like  mice,  while  Nurse 
Sat  mending,  solemn  as  a  hearse, 
And  even  our  unlearned  eyes 
Half  closed  with  choking  memories. 

Is  it  the  mist  or  the  dead  leaves, 
Or  the  dead  men — November  eves  ? 


233 


God  Save  the  King 


God  save  our  gracious  King, 
Nation  and  State  and  King, 

God  save  the  King  ! 
Grant  him  the  Peace  divine, 
But  if  his  Wars  be  Thine 
Flash  on  our  fighting  line 

Victory's  Wing ! 

Thou  in  his  suppliant  hands 
Hast  placed  such  Mighty  Lands 

Save  thou  our  King  ! 
As  once  from  golden  Skies 
Rebels  with  flaming  eyes, 
So  the  King's  Enemies 

Doom  Thou  and  fling  ! 

Mountains  that  break  the  night 
Holds  He  by  eagle  right 

Stretching  far  Wing ! 
Dawn  lands  for  Youth  to  reap, 
Dim  lands  where  Empires  sleep, 
His  !    And  the  Lion  Deep 

Roars  for  the  King. 

234 


But  most  these  few  dear  miles 
Of  sweetly-meadowed  Isles, — 

England  all  Spring ; 
Scotland  that  by  the  marge 
Where  the  blank  North  doth  charge 
Hears  Thy  Voice  loud  and  large, 

Save,  and  their  King  ! 

Grace  on  the  golden  Dales 
Of  Thine  old  Christian  Wales 

Shower  till  they  sing, 
Till  Erin's  Island  lawn 
Echoes  the  dulcet-drawn 
Song  with  a  cry  of  Dawn — 

God  save  the  King  ! 


235 


The  Burial  in  England 


These  then  we  honour  :   these  in  fragrant  earth 
Of  their  own  country  in  great  peace  forget 
Death's  lion-roar  and  gust  of  nostril-flame 
Breathing  souls  across  to  the  Evening  Shore. 
Soon  over  these  the  flowers  of  our  hill-sides 
Shall  wake  and  wave  and  nod  beneath  the  bee 
And  whisper  love  to  Zephyr  year  on  year, 
Till  the  red  war  gleam  like  a  dim  red  rose 
Lost  in  the  garden  of  the  Sons  of  Time. 
But  ah  what  thousands  no  such  friendly  doom 
Awaits, — whom  silent  comrades  in  full  night 
Gazing  right  and  left  shall  bury  swiftly 
By  the  cold  flicker  of  an  alien  moon. 

Ye  veiled  women,  ye  with  folded  hands, 
Mourning  those  you  half  hoped  for  Death  too  dear, 
I  claim  no  heed  of  you.     Broader  than  earth 
Love  stands  eclipsing  nations  with  his  wings, 
While  Pain,  his  shadow,  delves  as  black  and  deep 
As  he  e'er  flamed  or  flew.     Citizens  draw 
Back  from  their  dead  awhile.     Salute  the  flag  ! 

If  this  flag  though  royally  always  borne, 
Deceived  not  dastard,  ever  served  base  gold  ; 


236 


If  the  dark  children  of  the  old  Forest 
Once  feared  it,  or  ill  Sultans  mocked  it  furled, 
Yet  now  as  on  a  thousand  death-reaped  days 
It  takes  once  more  the  unquestionable  road. 
O  bright  with  blood  of  heroes,  not  a  star 
Of  all  the  north  shines  purer  on  the  sea  ! 

Our  foes — the  hardest  men  a  state  can  forge, 
An  army  wrenched  and  hammered  like  a  blade 
Toledo-wrought  neither  to  break  nor  bend, 
Dipped  in  that  ice  the  pedantry  of  power, 
And  toughened  with  wry  gospels  of  dismay ; 
Such  are  these  who  brake  down  the  door  of  France, 
Wolves  worrying  at  the  old  World's  honour, 
Hunting  Peace  not  to  prison  but  her  tomb. 
But  ever  as  some  brown  song-bird  whose  torn  nest 
Gapes  robbery,  darts  on  the  hawk  like  fire, 
So  Peace  hath  answered,  angry  and  in  arms. 
And  from  each  grey  hamlet  and  bright  town  of  France 
From  where  the  apple  or  the  olive  grows 
Or  thin  tall  strings  of  poplars  on  the  plains, 
From  the  rough  castle  of  the  central  hills, 
From  the  three  coasts — of  mist  and  storm  and  sun, 
And  meadows  of  the  four  deep-rolling  streams, 
From  every  house  whose  windows  hear  God's  bell 
Crowding  the  twilight  with  the  wings  of  prayer 
And  flash  their  answer  in  a  golden  haze, 
Stream  the  young  soldiers  who  are  never  tired. 
For  all  the  foul  mists  vanished  when  that  land 
Called  clear,  as  in  the  sunny  Alpine  morn 
The  jodeler  awakes  the  frosty  slopes 


237 


To  thunderous  replies, — soon  fading  far 
Among  the  vales  like  songs  of  dead  children. 
But  the  French  guns'  answer,  ne'er  to  echoes  weak 
Diminished,  bursts  from  the  deep  trenches  yet ; 
And  its  least  light  vibration  blew  to  dust 
The  weary  factions, — priest's  or  guild's  or  king's, 
And  side  by  side  troop  up  the  old  partisans, 
The  same  laughing,  invincible,  tough  men 
Who  gave  Napoleon  Europe  like  a  loaf, 
For  slice  and  portion, — not  so  long  ago  ! 
Either  to  Alsace  or  loved  lost  Lorraine 
They  pass,  or  inexpugnable  Verdun 
Ceintured  with  steel,  or  stung  with  faith's  old  cry 
Assume  God's  vengeance  for  his  temple  stones. 
But  you  maybe  best  wish  them  for  the  north 
Beside  you  'neath  low  skies  in  loamed  fields, 
Or  where  the  great  line  hard  on  the  duned  shore 
Ends  and  night  leaps  to  England's  sea-borne  flame. 
Never  one  drop  of  Lethe's  stagnant  cup 
Dare  dim  the  fountains  of  the  Marne  and  Aisne 
Since  still  the  flowers  and  meadow-grass  unmown 
Lie  broken  with  the  imprint  of  those  who  fell, 
Briton  and  Gaul — but  fell  immortal  friends 
And  fell  victorious  and  like  tall  trees  fell. 

But  young  men,  you  who  loiter  in  the  town, 
Need  you  be  roused  with  overshouted  words, 
Country,  Empire,  Honour,  Liege,  Louvain  ? 
Pay  your  own  Youth  the  duty  of  her  dreams. 
For  what  sleep  shall  keep  her  from  the  thrill 
Of  War's  star-smiting  music,  with  its  swell 


238 


Of  shore  and  forest  and  horns  high  in  the  wind, 
(Yet  pierced  with  that  too  sharp  piping  which  if  man 
Hear  and  not  fear  he  shall  face  God  unscathed)  ? 
What,  are  you  poets  whose  vain  souls  contrive 
Sorties  and  sieges  spun  of  the  trickling  moon 
And  such  a  rousing  ghost-catastrophe 
You  need  no  concrete  marvels  to  be  saved  ? 
Or  live  you  here  too  lustily  for  change  ? 
Sail  you  such  pirate  seas  on  such  high  quests, 
Hunt  you  thick  gold  or  striped  and  spotted  beasts, 
Or  tread  the  lone  ways  of  the  swan-like  mountains  ? 
Excused.     But  if,  as  I  think,  breeched  in  blue, 
Stalled  at  a  counter,  cramped  upon  a  desk, 
You  drive  a  woman's  pencraft — or  a  slave's, 
What  chain  shall  hold  you  when  the  trumpets  play 
Calling  from  the  blue  hill  behind  your  town 
Calling  over  the  seas,  calling  for  you  ! 
"  But,"  do  you  murmur  ?   "  we'd  not  be  as  those. 
Death  is  a  dour  recruiting-sergeant :   see, 
These  women  weep,  we  celebrate  the  dead." 
Boys,  drink  the  cup  of  warning  dry.     Face  square 
That  old  grim  hazard,  "  Glory-or-the-Grave." 
Not  we  shall  trick  your  pleasant  years  away, 
Yet  is  not  Death  the  great  adventure  still, 
And  is  it  all  loss  to  set  ship  clean  anew 
When  heart  is  young  and  life  an  eagle  poised  ? 
Choose,  you're  no  cowards.     After  all,  think  some, 
Since  we  are  men  and  shrine  immortal  souls 
Surely  for  us  as  for  these  nobly  dead 
The  Kings  of  England  lifting  up  their  swords 
Shall  gather  at  the  gate  of  Paradise. 

239 


The  True  Paradise 


Lord,  is  the  Poet  to  destruction  vowed, 

Like  the  dawn-feather  of  an  April  cloud, 

Which  signs  in  russet  character  or  grey 

The  name  of  Beauty  on  the  book  of  Day  ? 

We  poets  crave  no  heav'n  but  what  is  ours — 

These  trees  beside  these  rivers  ;   these  same  flowers 

Shaped  and  enfragranced  to  the  English  field 

Where  Thy  best  florist-craft  is  full  revealed. 

Trees  by  the  river,  birds  upon  the  bough 

My  soul  shall  ask  for,  whose  flesh  enjoys  them  now 

Through  both  the  pale-blue  windows  of  quick  Mind  ; 

Grant  me  earth's  treats  in  Paradise  to  find. 

Nor  listen  to  that  island-bound  St.  John 

Who'd  have  no  Sea  in  Heaven,  no  Sea  to  sail  upon  ! 

Remake  this  World  less  Man's  and  Nature's  Pain  ; 

Save  such  dear  torment  as  the  chill  of  Rain 

When  the  sun  flouts  us  like  a  maid  her  man 

Drowned  in  long  meshes  of  a  silver  Fan. 

Nor,  Lord,  the  good  fatigue  of  labouring  breath 

Destroy,  but  only  Sickness,  Age  and  Death. 

Let  old  Plays  teach  Despair's  sad  grandeur  still 

And  legends  trumpet  War's  last  Hero-thrill. 


240 


So  I  and  all  my  friends,  still  young,  still  wise, 
Will  shout  along  thy  streets — "  0  Paradise  !  " 
But  if  prepared  for  me  new  Mansions  are, 
Chill  and  unknown,  in  some  bright  windy  Star, 
Mid  strange-shaped  Souls  from  all  the  Planets  seven, 
Lord,  I  fear  deep,  and  would  not  go  to  Heaven. 
Rather  in  feather-mist  Pd  fade  away 
Like  the  Dawn-writing  of  an  April  day. 


241 


Ode  to  the  Glory  of  Greece 

{A  Fragment) 

Hellas  victorious  ! 

Two  came  to  me  at  night 

Glorious 

With  that  Elysian  light 

Which  round  the  phantoms  of  great  Poets  dead 

Hovers,  as  once  in  their  blue  earthly  eyes 

Played  Thoughts  with  wings  outspread, — 

The  splendour  of  their  souls. 

Cried  one  to  me,"  O  mortal  brother,  since  thou  lovest  too 

With  all  thy  burning  breath 

The  stony  hills  and  salt  Corinthian  blue 

From  whose  divine  dear  shore 

Apollo  led  me  to  the  caves  of  death " 

But  charmed,  he  forbore. 

His  voice  had  sung  to  measure  grave  and  low 

When  suddenly  his  young  friend-phantom  spoke, 

And  Shelley's  voice  rang  like  a  wave  of  aether 

Blazing  and  breaking  on  rosy  cliffs  of  air, 

And  his  face  was  flaming  snow,  overlushed 


242 


By  a  river  of  the  sun — his  long  bright  hair. 

"  Inheritor,"  he  sang,  "  speed  thou  away 

Rushing  with    iEolus   and    Boreas,  rushing    on    the 

ancient  paths 
Scattering  the  rosy  plumage  of  the  new  arisen  day. 

"  Go  thou  to  Athens,  go  to  Salonica, 

Go  thou  to  Yannina  beside  the  lake, 

And  cry,  '  The  vision  of  the  Prophet  dead  ! ' 

Cry,  '  The  Olympians  wake  ! ' 

And  cry,  '  O  Towers  of  Hellas  built  anew  by  rhyme, 

Star- woven  to  my  Amphionic  lyre, 

Stand  you  in  steel  for  ever, 

And  from  your  lofty  lanterns  sweeping  the  dim  hills 

and  the  nocturnal  sea 
Pour  out  the  fire  of  Hellas,  the  everlasting  fire  ! '  " 

And  then  to  me  once  more  the  Elder  Shadow : 

"  Still,  brother,  Shelley's  fancy  brims  desire : 

His  soul  is  so  acquainted  with  great  dreams 

That  even  the  immane  Elysian  meadow 

Whose  flowers  are  stars  and  every  star  a  world  that 

glides  and  gleams, 
Confines  him  not — but  still  he  longs  to  roam 
Beyond  the  quiet  spiritual  home. 
— His  soul  is  so  acquainted  with  great  dreams 
That  man's  endeavour 
He  seeth  not  near — that  broken  river 
Struggling — to  what  salt  sea  ? 


243 


"  Since  man's  endeavour  flows  as  a  river,  how  shall  it 
turn  to  the  hills  again  ? 

— Burst  again  all  rosy  with  morning  from  snow- 
starred  mountains  of  first  renown  ; 

Who  to-day  shall  hear  the  Achaeans  shout  from  the 
trench  of  the  Troyans  slain, 

Who  rebuild  in  music  or  memory  Sparta's  tower  or 
Athena's  town  ? 

"  Since  the  Roman  intercepted  and  Rome's  dimidiate, 

stoled  Byzance, 
Shall    they   hear    above    their     cannon    grave,    the 

Periclean  tune  ? 
Christ  oversang  it,   chivalry  dimmed  it,  winding  on 

Parnes  the  horns  of  France, 
Islam  drowned  the  echo  of  echo  deep  in  the   night  of 

her  languid  moon." 


Passionate  thus  he  spake,  the  wise  ghost  unforgetful 

Of  stone  and  tree,  river  and  shore  and  plain, 

And  the  good  coloured  things  of  Earth  the  dead  see 

not  again, 
And  how  man's  hope  grows  weak  and  his  force  fretful 
With  such  great  hills  to  gain. 
I  for  an  answer  pondered  deep, 
And  then  I  seemed  to  fall  from  sleep  to  sleep, 
Watching  as  through  a  veil  I  could  not  tear 
The  threads  of  rose  and  gold  of  Shelley's  hair. 


244 


The  gold  glowed  deeper  and  the  rose  burnt  red, 

And  I  saw  running  and  rustling  at  my  feet 

The  rivers  of  a  golden  sun  that  bled 

Scarlet,  scarlet,  scarlet  as  though  wounded 

By  some  celestial  archer  of  the  Stars 

In  the  last  fight  when  God's  last  trump  was  sounded  ; 

Then  the  great  lake  of  commingling  blood  and  fire 

Burst  in  a  fountain  to  my  window  streaming, 

To  my  Cephisian  window  high  and  cool, 

Over  far  Salamis  and  Athens  gleaming, 

Drowning  the  sea  and  city  in  one  deep  pool. 

And  only  now  old  Parnes  of  the  West 

And  grey  Hymettus  of  the  dawn 

Rose  above  the  phantom  seas 

Like  Islands  of  the  Blest. 

.  Then  a  wind  came  and  swept  and  whirle  d  away, 
And  the  mist  left  Hymettus  broken  small 
Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees. 
Gone  is  the  Poet  of  the  magic  locks, 
And  Byron  gone  ;  master  of  war's  [....] 
Outflashes  white  the  holy  Parthenon 
And  broad  calm  streets  of  Athens  of  to-day, 
And  in  the  barracks  the  far  bugles  play, 
O  listen  what  they  say  ! 


Hark,  hark  the  shepherd  piping  far  and  near, 
The  hills  are  dancing  to  the  Dorian  mood. 

24s 


To-day  Arcady  is  and  the  white  Fear 
Naked  in  sunshine  glory  still  haunts  here  ; 
The  old  dark  wood 

Invites  to  prayer — or  fountain  in  the  vale. 
If  not  the  Cytherean,  one  more  dear 
Daphnis  shall  worship — one  more  pale, 
She  too  a  heroine  of  a  Grecian  tale. 


But  if  no  Pheidias  with  marble  towers 

Grace  our  new  Athens,  simple,  calm  and  wide, 

Carving  a  group  of  men  to  look  like  flowers 

For  our  new  glory's  pride. 

If  songs  of  gentle  Solomos  be  less 

Than  that  Aeschylean  trump  of  bronze 

And  if  beside  Eurotas  the  lone  swans 

About  the  desolation  press. 

Yet  still  victorious  Hellas,  thou  hast  heard 
Those  ancient  voices  thundering  to  arms, 
Thou  nation  of  an  older  younger  day 
Thou  hast  gone  forth  as  with  the  poet's  song. 
Surely  the  spirit  of  the  old  oak  grove 
Rejoiced  to  hear  the  cannon  round  Yannina, 
Apollo  launched  his  shaft  of  terror  down 
On  Salonica.     .... 


I9J3 


246 


The  Old  Warship  Ablaze 


Founder,  old  battleship  ;  thy  fight  is  done  ! 
Yonder  ablaze  like  thee  now  sinks  the  sun, 
Shooting  the  last  grand  broadside  of  his  beams 
Over  thy  blackened  plates  and  writhing  seams. 
Against  hard  odds  thy  crew  played  all  their  part, 
Driving  thee  deathwards  that  the  foe  should  smart 
Till  the  guns  brake  and  fire  leapt  up  insane, 
And  they  abandoned  thee,  to  fight  again, 
Who  on  thy  deck,  where  flicker  the  gaunt  flames, 
Have  left  so  many  dead — won  such  proud  names. 


Dark  flow  the  waiting  waves  :  one  can  still  see 
Thy  giant  murderer  edge  sullenly 
Eastward  among  the  swelling  towers  of  night. 
Canst  thou,  dying,  forget  in  Hell's  despite 
Thy  freight  of  fire  and  blood,  the  roar  and  rage 
Of  waves  and  guns  ?     Thou  liest  age  on  age 
Tranced  like  the  Princess  in  her  sleepy  Thorn, 
In  that  curv'd  bay  where  once  the  film  of  morn 
Brake  azure  to  thy  bugles,  skilled  to  bring 
The  Afric  breeze,  who,  prompt  on  honied  wing 


247 


Silvered  the  waves  and  then  the  olive  trees, 
And  shook  like  sceptres  those  stiff  companies 
The  columned  palms, — nor  till  the  air  was  full 
Of  flash  and  whisper  came  the  noon-tide  lull. 
Or  that  far  country's  ten-year-buried  eves 
Or  moonlight  scattered  like  a  shower  of  leaves 
Dost  thou  recall  ? — Or  how  on  this  same  deck, 
Whose  flaming  planks  blood-boultered  tilt  to  wreck, 
The  dance  went  round  to  music,  and  how  shone 
For  English  grey,  black  eyes  of  Lebanon  ? 


But  Eastward  and  still  east  the  World  is  thrown 
Like  a  mad  hunter  seeking  dawns  unknown 
Who  plunges  deep  in  sparkless  woods  of  gloom. 
Lebanon  long  hath  turned  into  night's  womb 
And  through  her  stelled  casements  pass  new  dreams 
Thee  too  from  those  last  no-more-rival  beams 
Earth  rolleth  back.    Alone  O  ship,  O  flower, 
O  flame,  thou  sailest  for  a  moth-weak  hour  ! 


They  come  at  last,  the  bird-soft  pattering  feet ! 

Flame  high,  old  ship  ;  the  Fair  throng  up  to  greet 

Thy  splendid  doom.     See  the  long  spirits,  curled 

Beside  their  dead,  stand  upright  free  of  the  world  ! 

And  seize  the  bright  shapes  loosed  from  blood-warm  sleep, 

They,  the  true  ghosts,  whose  eyes  are  fixed  and  deep  ! 


248 


O  ship,  O  fire,  O  fancy  !     A  swift  roar 

Has  rent  the  brow  of  night.     Thou  nevermore 

Shalt  glide  to  channel  port  or  Syrian  town  ; 

Light  ghosts  have  danced  thee  like  a  plummet  down, 

And,  swift  as  Fate  through  skies  with  storm  bestrewn, 

Dips  out  ironical  that  ship  New  Moon. 


The  End 


PRINTED  AT 
KNIGHT'S,   WEST   NORWOOD 


DATE  DUE 

r\r  0*7 

1976 

DtL < 

lv  '    *^ 

RECD  DE 

C     6  1976 

i         MA> 

1?  19^7 

RECD  M 

ftY  2  3  1977 

CAYLORD 

PRINTEOINU.S.A. 

*K 


DO 


3  1970  00037  8809 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  812  183     2 


